Halo: Necropolis
by M306117
Summary: Successfully returning to Earth, SPARTAN-B124 is quickly redeployed to the far flung and glassed Outer Colony Kohl to investigate a strange signal after twenty years of silence, but this city of the dead hides more than dust and and darkness beneath the frozen surface.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

 **Spartan-B124, aboard UNSC Corvette** _ **Falcon**_ **, Slipstream space – unknown coordinates near Beta Gabriel System. 1500 Hours, February 10, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

The only signal that the ship had transitioned back to normal space was a tug of deceleration, Scott's room lacking windows, but even then it was a gentle tug that spoke volumes of the advancements humanity had made when it came to slipspace drives even in the few short months following the conclusion of the Human-Covenant War, blending a mixture of human and alien technology into a device that allowed faster than light travel.

Before, the jolt that came about was more pronounced and required the crew to hold on or strap in. Now, they just had to brace slightly as they went about their business onboard the ship, which is exactly what the Spartan did.

He tensed his legs slightly once he felt a slight change in the corvette's background noise but otherwise, his attention never wavered from his task of prepping his gear ahead of a combat drop via HEV to a long abandoned Outer Colony. It was a routine task for him, the past seven years consisting of countless times he and his team had gotten ready from a drop from orbit, and his hands danced around the plethora of equipment located on a table in his quarters, checking and rechecking for damage or fouling.

' _Time to target three hours, four minutes, Commander_ ,' a disembodied voice said from a wall mounted speaker, the captain of _Falcon_ and her crew.

'Acknowledged,' Scott said without looking up. 'Anything anomalous?'

' _Negative. No weird COM signals so far, but there could be ships operating under EMCON.'_

'Acknowledged,' Scott said again.

The intercom clicked off as the captain of the ship, who was equal in rank to the Spartan, returned to his duties. He knew what he needed to do, having done it over the course of a career longer than Scott's by a good three years, and didn't need a passenger telling him what to do, even if said passenger held tactical command of the mission and its assets.

Scott, like _Falcon_ 's CO, knew what he needed to do and piloting a corvette wasn't one of his responsibilities. He had zero experiencing helming a ship larger than a Pelican dropship, so any input he had to offer might be detrimental. Better to let those who knew their jobs get on with it, just like they'd let him get on with his tasks.

He ejected the magazine from his assault rifle and pulled back the bolt, working it several times to ensure it was properly oiled and not snagging on anything, and ran the electronic systems through a full check. Everything pulsed back at him with a cool blue to signal it was working correctly, and the Spartan slipped the magazine back home.

He did the same with his pistol, and everything else, two more times to be certain they wouldn't fail on him at just the wrong moment, stowing them all into the various pouches and clips that adorned his armour and the rucksack that came with it, adjusting it all to make sure nothing rattled when he moved.

By the time he was done, their target was coming within range for HEV deployment and the lone Spartan made his way to the observation deck where Lieutenant Commander Matthew Esteban was waiting. The bridge was too cramped to accommodate a fully armoured Spartan and even on the more spacious observation deck, Scott seemed to take up half the room himself as he and Esteban peered through the toughened glass at their target below, the glassed Outer Colony of Kohl that appeared to be a great ball of ice, a permanent state of winter imposed upon it by the actions of the Covenant back in 2532.

The surface, what wasn't covered from view by thick grey clouds, was a dirty white, the sea still choked with ash even after twenty years to recover. Readouts appeared on Scott's HUD as Tara, the dumb AI that resided in his armour, interfaced with the corvette's systems and relayed her findings. They said the surface temperature was, on average, ten degrees below freezing with strong winds making it feel even colder.

'Hard to believe anything's alive down there,' Esteban said. 'We're here in the planet's summer months. I can't imagine what the place is like in winter.'

'Somebody's down there,' Scott said. 'Or, they were. It's just a matter of finding them.'

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Bravo-6, city of Sydney. 0845 Hours, January 02, 2553 (Military Calendar) Four weeks ago.**

'Commander, welcome back,' the ONI agent said, an unassuming man who gave his name simply as Smith, dressed in a black service tunic with the all seeing eye of ONI sewn onto the shoulder in subdued colours. 'For a while, we thought we'd lost another member of Grey Team.'

He was sat behind a plain desk devoid of any personal touches, containing just a computer and an equally plain mug of coffee that had long ago grown cold, fixing the Spartan before him with a warm smile, or as warm a one that an ONI agent could muster. They lived and breathed secrets, after all, becoming more familiar with phrases like eyes only and beyond top secret than please and thank you.

Scott didn't return the smile, staring fixedly at the ONI agent. Unlike Smith, he was dressed in his armour, a battered and scuffed set of MJOLNIR Mark V coloured a matte steel grey, the only uniform aspect about it. His helmet came from the K line of armour pieces, boasting a command network module on the right of the helmet and additional plating on the brow to allow him to better intercept enemy transmissions and survive blows to the head that might come from above, the visor a deep black that offered no glimpse at the face behind it.

His shoulder pauldrons were the exact opposite of one another, the right hand one nothing more than a hardened plate wrapped around his upper shoulder that allowed extra protection during close quarters combat while offering some freedom of movement when firing a rifle. The left shoulder's design went the other way, a circular piece of metal boasting great defensive capabilities against incoming fire when shooting from a prone position.

For storage, his armour sported three pouches directly on the chest, each big enough to hold an extra magazine or equipment like lock picks and data pads, and a much larger soft case on his left leg that held anything else that didn't have a home, including a pack of cards housed in a battered tobacco tin that had survived countless battles, and other than a UGPS on his left forearm the only other adjustment Scott had made to his suit were knee guards from the FJ/Para line, offering maximum protection at minimum weight.

All in all, the Spartan and his armour weighed more than half a ton, closing off some avenues of approach or escape, but offered enhanced speed, reflexes and strength, and a recharging energy shield as compensation, resulting in a very hard to kill soldier who, when paired with an AI, could receive and act upon fresh intelligence in the field at a moment's notice, a deadly combination.

The suit, and the Spartan wearing it, had just returned from a parallel world where humanity had never spread to the stars, bombing themselves into near extinction long before that could happen in a nuclear war of global proportions, leaving behind a radioactive hellhole raiders and mutants and scavengers constantly fought over with only a few bastions of humanity trying to make the world a better place.

He and a few companies of Marines, plus four platoons of ODSTs, had gotten engaged in two different wars on both sides of what was once America, fending off mercenaries in and around the former Washington, DC, before shifting regions and enemies to help defend the State of Nevada from two whole armies, one modelling itself after the pre-War US Army and the other taking inspiration from Ancient Rome.

The fight had not been without casualties, most of them coming about when a Covenant assault carrier appeared high above the Earth and shot down their frigate, prompting the remaining crew to launch a desperate boarding action to give themselves a means of escaping the wastelands.

And they had, returning just a few days ago to find their Earth, only _after_ it had been assaulted and partially glassed by a Covenant fleet of gigantic proportions and some sort of parasitic infestation that had gripped the eastern coast of Africa. More staggering was the fact the _Elites_ of all things had broken away from the Covenant after some falling out with their bosses, allying with the UNSC to send them and their new enforcers the Brutes into Hell.

It had come as a shock to Scott and he couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea, everything he had known in his life up until that point placing emphasis on the fact that aliens were bad, and should be killed at every opportunity. Now they were allies? Madness.

'Sir, what's the status of SPARTAN-B101?' he asked, keenly aware that the last he had seen of Emily was of her inert form being loaded onto a Pelican for transport to the UNSC _Hopeful_ , a little over four months ago following the Battle of Leon.

'She's fine, Commander,' Smith said. 'There's no need to worry. B101 made a full recovery and returned to active duty just in time to help with the Battle of Earth.'

'Where is she?'

'On deployment, long range, so we can't easily recall her, but rest assured. We will get you two back together before too long.'

The Spartan let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, relieved to know Emily was still alive but worried slightly that she was out by herself. Seven years of fighting alongside one another fostered deep bonds between people, and the Spartan-III program placed great emphasis on its candidates utilising teamwork to achieve objectives.

As was so often drummed into their heads by Lieutenant Ambrose, fireteam is family. To hear his teammate was working elsewhere without him caused a pang of concern to resonate throughout Scott. He could sense apprehension from Tara via his neural lace, the AI having grown accustomed to Emily in the short time Grey Team had worked with the intelligence construct.

'Request permission to join her, sir,' Scott said, but Smith shook his head.

'Permission denied, I'm afraid,' he said. 'As much as I'd want two Spartans working together on the same mission, there are other matters to attend to.'

He snapped his fingers and a holographic map of a star system snapped into view between him and Scott, slowly rotating along an unseen axis to show a dirty yellow star at the centre and five celestial bodies, two rocky planets and a gas giant with two moons, revolving around it on circular orbits. At the bottom of the image were the coordinates of the system, and below these was the official designation.

'Beta Gabriel,' Smith began. 'Almost a hundred light years from Earth and home to a single Outer Colony, Kohl, which was founded in 2480.'

He snapped his fingers again and the map zoomed in on Kohl, one of the moons orbiting the gas giant, and Scott saw most of the surface was ocean with a single landmass, a mountainous continent that took up a quarter of the planet's surface. Clustered close to the southernmost part of the continent was a sprawling city with an orbital elevator sitting a few kilometres even further south to put it on the equator. As the image zoomed in even more, the Spartan saw numerous docks and ports filled with ships and barges lining most of the coast.

'By the time the Covies came knocking in 2532, it was a chief exporter of fish with a population of fifty-thousand, helping feed four other systems which was vital after we lost Harvest, so a spirited defence was made which, ultimately, failed and we retreated from the system.

'As is SOP in such instances, we deployed a long range beacon to keep an ear out for any anomalous transmissions, human or otherwise, so we could act accordingly based on what we heard.'

Smith leaned back in his chair and steeped his fingers, looking over at Scott and, to a lesser extent, Tara, pausing for a moment before saying, 'For the longest of times, we heard nothing from the Beta Gabriel system. Then, around a year ago, the beacon began detecting something. At first we believed this was just garbled interstellar noise that a twenty year old platform had picked up and paid it no heed, but when the noise came back and with near perfect regularity we started paying more attention.'

'An automated message,' Scott said, rather than guessed.

'Yeah,' Smith said with a nod. 'Encrypted too, so it's not a distress call from any survivors on the planet. Or, if it is, they only want certain people to come get them.'

'Human or Covenant?'

'No idea,' Smith said, offering an apologetic shrug. 'It's being broadcasted on all known frequencies, human _and_ Covenant, so we don't know at this point if it's humans using Covenant equipment or vice versa. All we know is that it's the same signal, day in and day out, getting broadcasted from a glassed colony. Make of that what you will.'

Nothing good was Scott's first thought. The only signal he might expect to come from a colony the UNSC had retreated from was a distress signal, on known human frequencies, without encryption, calling for any and all listeners to come save them. Encrypted signals on all frequencies hinted at ulterior motives and hostile factions, likely the Insurrection, alerting their comrades in arms to some new discovery that might tip the odds back in the favour somehow.

'So why are you sending me?' Scott asked.

'To investigate, of course,' Smith said. 'We've been sitting on this for over a year, flagging it as low priority given the Covenant were giving us something more important to focus on, but now they're fractured we've got an opportunity to check it out. If there's a threat on Kohl, we need it dealing with sooner rather than later.'

'No, I mean why are you sending me specifically,' Scott said. 'Deploying a single Spartan on a simple recon job seems like a massive waste of resources given the greater, more apparent threats out there. Wouldn't ODSTs be able to get the job done just as easily?'

'Maybe,' Smith said. 'Definitely, actually, but I've only got access to a handful of them, a battalion or so, and about a dozen other problems I need to look at that, like you said, are more apparent and of greater concern. The difference between them and Kohl, though, is that we know more about those problems.

'Enough, actually, to know just how many Helljumpers are needed to sort it out. That's not the case with Kohl. I could send a platoon of them there when I actually needed to send a company, or the whole battalion, because there's a sizeable Covenant garrison still on the ground looking to reunite with their buddies and resume their genocidal campaign, or an Insurrectionist cell that's hidden themselves amongst the ruins and is looking to establish a second Venezia.

'I'd rather send a Spartan into an unknown situation like that because they stand a greater chance at making it through alive, and at softening up the opposition whilst waiting for mainline forces to arrive. You guys have a reputation for making the impossible happen, which might just be what I need.'

Smith spread his hands wide and added, 'It's not ideal. I'll freely admit that now. Were we not just starting to pick ourselves up and had we not just deployed a division of Marines, ODSTs and Spartan-IVs off to some far flung system to battle Innies and griffins, I'd have sent more than a corvette and a sole Spartan to investigate this signal, but you're all I've got.'

The Spartan cocked his head to the side as he processed what Smith had said, agreeing with most of it despite not liking the news he was getting deployed solo again, before fixating on one thing.

'Griffins?'

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Glukhovsky Memorial Elevator. 1930 Hours, February 10, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

Stepping foot into the orbital elevator was like stepping foot into some macabre tomb, everywhere he looked containing abandoned suitcases and bags that were covered with dust and frost from when the inhabitants of Kohl had made their desperate escape from the Covenant, and Scott crouched down besides one such holdall, plucking a small doll from within that looked even smaller in his gauntleted hand.

'Do you think she knows she left it behind?' Tara said in the Spartan's ear.

'I don't know,' Scott said as he discarded the item and stood, panning his gaze across the atrium and cutting through the darkness with twin beams of intense white light.

The power had long since failed in the elevator, meaning the lights had stopped working and their emergency battery backups were completely exhausted. The illumination being provided by Scott was likely the first such artificial source to beat back the darkness in years, even if it didn't paint a pretty picture.

He had seen similar scenes before on a dozen different planets, often with the people still around to accidentally drop their bags and holdalls and dolls, and he couldn't decide if the deafening silence of Glukhovsky Memorial Elevator was better or worse than the deafening cries of colonists as they hoped for a spot on the next available transport. Each was horrific in its own way but Scott settled on preferring the noise rather than the silence.

At least the cries meant there were still people he could save. A dread silence meant he was too late.

He shook the thought from his head and hefted his rifle, snapping its underslung torch on as well to provide extra illumination, pushing through the detritus and flotsam that was a panicked evacuation's sad reminder to the elevator's main centre of operations where, if the archived schematics were to be believed, would be a working terminal of some description. _Falcon_ had triangulated the automated signal's source to the elevator's long range communication arrays, which meant there had to be some record of where it came from.

Scans had shown the elevator's temperature to be close to -50 Celsius, far below what anyone could expect to brave without adequate protection, to say nothing of making the ascent from the planet to the top of the elevator. All four cars would still be docked with the station, left there after the last evacuees were away and with nobody to send them back down again, and even if someone managed to divert enough power into the station to send them hurtling downwards it was likely the docking mechanisms had seized shut, or become frozen into place once the temperature dropped.

That meant someone on the planet had established a link between themselves and the communication arrays and left an electronic trail that Tara, and in turn Scott, could follow all the way home.

It wasn't long before the Spartan found himself in the nerve centre of the elevator, a cramped space filled with terminals and data banks and windows that offered majestic views of the planet below, a once picturesque panoramic of deep greens and blues that had been replaced with a single, solid expanse of grey that was polluted snow, a lasting reminder of the Covenant's glassing creating a nuclear winter.

'We've gone from one extreme to another,' Tara said. 'First the scorching deserts of DC and the Mojave, now the frozen wastelands of Kohl.'

'Don't say I never take you places,' Scott murmured as he centred himself on the largest terminal, sweeping away two decades worth of dust and frost from the keyboard and tapping the space bar.

He reasoned there had to be some trickle of power running through the elevator's veins if it was sending messages, either too little to activate the lights or diverted solely to the communications array, but some of it had to pass through the operations centre. It was the figurative brain of the tether and through which all commands and requests went, meaning that if communications were up then so was this.

It was and Scott eventually found himself looking at the logon screen, ejecting Tara's chip from his helmet and plugging her into the system to work her magic. She appeared above a nearby holotank, avatar blurry and distorted from the frost that covered it, smoothing her hands over the lab coat and jeans that made up her appearance as powerful decryption schemes went to work on the antiquated computers currently hosting her.

'Three seconds,' Scott said once the logon screen vanished, replaced by a more cluttered desktop. 'You're not struggling, are you?'

'Hardly,' Tara shot back. 'It's the hardware, not the software. This is the first time in two decades that this stuff has spooled up to full speed, and the cold isn't helping.'

'Is it going to be a problem?'

'No.'

The screen began flashing as numerous alerts popped into existence, each bemoaning some overdue report or missed maintenance schedule or equipment failure, nothing majorly critical that would cause problems in the near future and Scott paid them no heed, Tara closing them all soon after as she sifted through the logs and found the one they were interested in.

'Okay, it looks like the communication system was last accessed one year, four months and twenty-three days ago,' Tara began. 'Content was an encoded file with no specific destination in mind. I'm guessing the sender didn't know where his friends are anymore.'

'No,' Scott said. 'Signal source?'

'Local,' Tara said. 'Obviously. Just give me a second to- Oh.'

'Oh, what?'

'The source of the signal came from a terminal in the base station. All external connections were severed during the Covenant's assault. Whoever sent the signal had to physically visit the station to do so. The actual source could be anywhere.'

'Of course,' Scott said, turning his gaze downwards to look at Kohl through the glass floor, a small spec of grey at the very bottom of the tether surrounded by clouds and covered with snow. 'Hail _Falcon_ and let them know we're ready for pickup, and have them train their sensors down at the city. Look for anomalous heat sources or energy readings, anything that might signal the presence of survivors.'

'Working,' Tara said. 'And if they can't find anything?'

The Spartan shrugged.

'We find them the old fashioned way.'


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

 **Spartan-B124, Glukhovsky Memorial Elevator base station, city of Newport. 2018 Hours, February 10, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

If the top the elevator was sombre then the base was tranquil, shin-high banks of snow covering the ground and hiding the worst of the damage from casual view with fresh flakes drifting down from high above, or it would have been if the only sound hadn't been a mournful howl of wind. Even so, Scott paid it little heed as he trudged along the bridge that connected the space elevator with the sole city on Kohl, Newport, which appeared as nothing more than a grey smudge on the horizon behind him.

The Covenant had only partly glassed the city, their fleet lacking both the numbers and tonnage to properly eradicate the human structures after a hard fought battle, but enough ash and soot had been ejected into the atmosphere to alter the climate of Kohl for the worse. What had been a normally cool planet was now home to almost permanent arctic conditions.

Scott paused next to an anomalous lump in the snow, brushing away powdery white layers to reveal the faded purple hue of a Banshee's outer hull with a few flecks of rust mixed in here and there. Further on was a burnt out hulk of a rail car, windows blown out and the metal charred black from a fuel rod gun impact, and when the Spartan walked past it he saw numerous skeletons still filled it, holding one another or shying away from the point of impact. The chain of events was easy to guess and he quickly moved on.

Similar lumps of covered or partially covered wrecks lined the bridge, a mixture of human and Covenant vehicles that had sought to defend and sever this vital link between safety and destruction respectively, with the greatest concentration of carnage surrounding the elevator's entrance. Portable barricades favoured by Marines still stood guard outside the grand entryway, backed up by empty boxes and crates and facing down a veritable bone yard of fallen Covenant soldiers.

There were a few times when Scott's foot came down on something more pliable than metal and concrete, and made a more visceral noise, growing in regularity the closer he got to the entrance before dying out completely once he made it past the barriers, which pleased him slightly. It spoke volumes of how the Covenant may have owned space but the ground? That was the domain of humanity.

He paid a quick moment of respect to the Marines and soldiers who had undoubtedly given their lives here to protect the fleeing civilians before carrying on, trading the tranquillity of a snowy expanse for the morbidity of the station's interior yet again. The main doors were gone and snow had crept in as a result, a vast and irregular semi-circle covering a dull marble floor, and abandoned luggage was just as common here as it was at the very top of the station.

'Tag the terminal,' Scott said.

'Working,' Tara said moments before a waypoint appeared on his HUD, directing the Spartan further into the station.

It wasn't too far away and after a few detours to avoid seized doors and ad hoc barricades, the duo found themselves standing before a small door leading into an equally small office that held two things of any interest; a terminal and a dead body, the first Scott had seen since arriving at Kohl.

The corpse was that of a man, in his late forties or early fifties, wearing a ragged parka zipped up tight against the cold weather and some equally faded combat trousers that had been patched and sewn back together in so many places, it begged the question of whether they were still the original pair, and slumped over the desk with his head on the terminal's keyboard.

'Huh,' was Tara's reaction to seeing the body. 'I wasn't expecting that.'

'Neither was I,' Scott said as he reached for the body sat it back up, exposing a tear in the coat and a mass of red surrounding it, both of which had come from a nasty looking gash in the man's abdomen. 'I wasn't expecting that, either.'

He felt a small burst of adrenaline enter his system as he straightened and glanced around the office, one hand on his holstered pistol, part of him expecting an attack from whatever had caused the wound even though the man had died almost seventeen months ago. Scott doubted he was a victim of the Covenant's attack given the Marines would have swept through the base station to ensure nobody was left behind, meaning he had either gotten stuck on the planet sometime after the UNSC pulled out, or he was accidentally left behind during the evacuations.

The wound suggested he wasn't the only thing still on the planet, and that the other thing was potentially hostile to humans. Other survivors maybe, or Covenant remnants still adhering to their beliefs, or some creature native to Kohl that had gone after its next meal. Whatever the cause of death was, it meant that Scott wasn't quite as alone as he had thought.

His hand dropped away as he focused back on the man to give him a quick pat down, finding an assortment of random junk that held either practical or sentimental value, food wrappers, basic medical paraphernalia like pain killers and bandages, and a well used M6D pistol in an old Marine thigh holster. Scott ejected the magazine and saw it was short by five rounds, indicating the man had fought in a gun battle of some point before his demise. Other than two spare magazines, both empty, there was nothing of any major value.

The man carried no notes as to where he had come from, or whom he was contacting outside of a broken flash drive, leaving the Spartan's next destination Newport. He might find something of use in the parts of the base station he hadn't explored but he also might not. If somebody was living here, he'd have seen evidence of it by now in some way or another, or they might have tried to make contact with him already in one way or another.

Dropping the pistol onto the desk, Scott gave the dead body one final look before spinning on his heel and walking back out of the office.

 **Spartan-B124, city of Newport. 2137 Hours, February 10, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

The sporadic lumps of snow hiding ruined fighting machines became more common once Scott set foot proper inside the city, seeing everything from Mongooses and Ghosts to the mighty Scorpions and Wraiths locked into place as lasting testaments to the three-day battle that had occurred here, surrounded by ash-grey buildings that had been struck by stray bullets or plasma bolts, or gutted entirely by a misplaced missile or plasma torpedo. In some places they had collapsed completely to leave a haphazard pile of rubble, the outline of the chunks softened by the snow that covered it.

Scott gave each a brief, cursory glance as he walked by but rarely lingered for more than that. They didn't hold any interest to him, either as a means of transportation or for intelligence gathering, and he had more pressing needs in the form of finding a suitable billet for the night. Sunset had occurred less than half an hour ago though the thick cloud cover had eliminated twilight altogether, the light level simply dropping from dim to dark inside of a few minutes with no orange and purple hues lingering on the horizon.

Technically he could bed down anywhere, his armour serving as a more than adequate shelter from the elements and providing as comfortable a mattress as he wished, but training told him he needed somewhere that was easily defendable and with several escape routes should he be overrun. Something was here on Kohl, or had been almost seventeen months ago, and the lone Spartan didn't want to give it an easy shot at getting him.

Tara had detailed maps of the city from old CAA records, plus a few high resolution images taken by the corvette during a momentary break in the clouds, and was soon directing her Spartan host towards a hotel that had once housed tourists coming to visit Newport and its burgeoning fishing industry before acting as a temporary divisional headquarters for the Marines in 2532. The Covenant had hit it, hard, but the structure still stood and was once again playing host to a member of the UNSC Defence Force.

The floor plan was simple enough, a staircase at either end of the floor with lifts in the middle and a dozen rooms on either side of the corridor, gradually increasing in size and grandeur the higher they went until the top floor was host to just four suites with several rooms and all the amenities of home, boasting luxurious decor to boot, but Scott ignored them in favour of a small room in the middle of the third storey.

It had a door that opened easily enough, a floor big enough to accommodate a Spartan lying down, and a balcony that provided a quick exit should hostiles force Scott to retreat. Everything he needed and nothing he didn't, and with motion sensors placed along both avenues of approach he would have at least some warning if something came for him.

A quick meal later but before he turned in for the night, Scott brought up his briefing packet for Newport to plan out his next move. The city had a population of 50,000 and covered over forty square miles, making for a sprawling urban environment eight miles wide and five long, parts of which had received unwanted attention from Covenant ships and their weapons, and all of which was covered in a thick blanket of snow that didn't seem to ever go away. Surviving in such conditions, while not impossible, was not exactly an ideal situation and it was for this reason, and one other, that Scott felt he wouldn't find anything alive in the ruins.

The other reason was that Newport, unlike most other Outer Colonies, had invested millions of credits into a massive civil engineering project designed to protect the citizens in case of catastrophe, or attack, by way of an underground bunker complex designed to hold the city's entire population in relative comfort until help could arrive, or surface conditions became safe enough to allow human habitation once more, for upwards of five years. It took inspiration from the Moscow Metro though where the fabled mass transit system had received modifications after its completion to serve as a shelter, the complex beneath Newport was designed from the outset with protecting people as its primary goal.

Composed of eight main tunnels, each six miles long and equipped with passageways for foot traffic and railcars, and three secondary rings that connected the different legs to another, the whole place contained almost fifty miles of tunnels and access routes. At each junction where the tunnels and rings met were complexes that varied in their purpose; those on the north-south and east-west lines were devoted to residential purposes with hot bunking required should the maximum number of people enter.

On the NE-SW and NW-SE lines, the outermost complexes were devoted to providing power and water for the inhabitants, with those closer in containing stores of supplies and limited manufacturing bases should the need arise. In the direct centre of the bunker, where all eight lines met up, was the government sector that housed the offices and quarters of Newport's ruling council, and where all decisions regarding how life in the bunker were made.

To Scott, the whole thing seemed wholly unnecessary given that such a large project was extremely costly in terms of both funding and resources, and the rationale behind it harkened back to a time when humanity had not yet left the surface of the Earth, or united under a single banner. There were no longer any rival nations pointing ICBMs or bombers at each other, threatening to launch at the slightest provocation and create a war with no winners, only losers, just the UNSC, who wielded tight control over their nuclear weapons, and the Insurrectionists, who deployed their crude devices in such a way that people never got a chance to sound an alarm.

Even being used as a shelter from meteor impacts, a much more plausible scenario, was bizarre given that all objects within a star system were catalogued and plotted, and any that were shown to pose a very real threat were destroyed by trained crews using precise deployment of munitions. Stranger still, the bunker was supposed to maintain life for five years. Exactly what made the designers think that their planet, a prominent source of fish that fed four other systems, would suddenly find itself isolated and alone for such a length of time after a catastrophe?

Ships would be dropping in and out of slipspace above it all the time. One or more of them would take note of whatever cataclysmic event had occurred and go for help, to Earth or Reach or whichever planet was the closest with the necessary gear and supplies to lend aid, and even with the slow speed of human FTL drives it would take no more than six months for help to arrive. Having an excess of supplies was to be expected, but five years worth seemed like overkill.

A much cheaper alternative would be to invest heavily in a fleet of ships, freighters and passenger liners, and have them on constant standby in case of disaster.

Scott couldn't tell if the colonists of Kohl were overly paranoid, took the adage of being prepared far too seriously, or were somehow precognitive. The initial plans for the complex were drawn up in 2511 after Insurrectionists detonated a nuclear device on Mamore with funds following a year later and the first stage, the government sector, getting underway a few weeks later. By the time the Human-Covenant War began, construction was finished and drills began.

Despite this, the bunker barely played a role in the survival of Newport's residents. Seven years of fighting the Covenant had taught humanity the aliens would doggedly pursue them everywhere, above and below ground, with the dark and twisting tunnels actually turning against their creators when they panicked and were set upon by cloaked Elites. Most had fled towards the space elevator rather than the hidden bunker entrances, culminating in 45,000 Kohl colonists finding themselves as refugees on planets they had once helped feed.

The fate of the other five-thousand was unknown and part of Scott's mission here on Kohl. Some would be nothing more than atomised particulates, victims of a plasma torpedo or mortar, and some would have slipped through the cracks caused by a planet wide evacuation, unintentionally or otherwise, but not all. The Covenant weren't as superior as they believed, missing settlers and colonists, and Newport held more places to hide than most cities.

If there were people here, and Scott knew there would be, they'd be underground in the tunnels. It was just a question of how many had gotten in, how many had survived until now, and if they had been followed by members of the Covenant...

'Tag the nearest bunker entrance to us,' Scott said.

'Residential, utility or administration?' Tara asked.

'The nearest,' Scott repeated. 'All we need to do is gain access, initially, and find a terminal we can upload you to. After that, based on what we find, we move out. If people are down there, they'll be using power and that'll give us a near perfect path to their location. At the very least, we'll find a log denoting where the power went and investigate that.'

'Working,' Tara said, a myriad of maps flashing across the Spartan's HUD as the AI in his head accessed her records and sifted through them, doing her utmost to comply with the request until, at last, a glowing blue dot was hovering above what had once been the entrance to a subway system. 'Done.'

'Good,' Scott said. 'Do we have any satellite imagery of the area?'

'No,' Tara said with a resigned sigh. 'By my estimates, we only have images for 23% of Newport's surface and in varying sizes. The biggest single image covers just three percent of the city and the entrance you want isn't in it.'

'Were any entrances captured by overhead imagery?'

'No,' Tara said again. 'The weather was working against us.'

'Acknowledged,' the Spartan said with a short sigh.

He wanted to have up to date information on his target, to know whether the entrance he was aiming for could still be used for access or if it had become blocked by rubble and required him to make a massive detour to the next one. Having a street plan was good and all but it only showed him how things had been, not how they were now, and going in blind wasn't exactly the recommended way of doing things. Of course, when he was in the bunker, he'd be going in everywhere blind but at least then, there was the possibility Tara could tap into the surveillance systems and offer him some form of advanced warning. Of course, if Tara needed to be giving him advanced warning about threats in the tunnels then something had gone every wrong with his mission.

'What do you think life's like down there?' Tara asked after several moments of silence.

'In the bunker? Scott said. 'No idea.'

'You must have some kind of one.'

'No,' Scott said. 'I really don't. It's hard to properly predict what a person or group will do in any given situation, even by experts. The survivors may have banded together in one of the apartment complexes and resumed their lives as best they could, or splintered into quarrelling tribes as a result of the stress of isolation and losing all they once knew.

'We could go down there and find them in the midst of a civil war, tearing each other apart for the smallest of reasons, or an idyllic society that doesn't want to leave their concrete home.'

He paused and thought about how long it had been since the Covenant had attacked, adding, 'Actually, there's been enough time for a whole new generation to have grown up within the bunker.'

'That's... a scary thought,' Tara said. 'I wonder what psychologists would make of them.'

'Unknown,' Scott said. 'My main concern is how they'll react to seeing me. Will they want to be rescued by the UNSC or not? We can't assume the people who sent that message will be friendly because of the encryption, especially given it was broadcast on Covenant frequencies despite being sent by a human.'

'Do you have any ideas on that?' Tara asked.

'Some,' Scott said. 'Best case scenario, whatever Covenant remnants are in the tunnel teamed up with some or all the human survivors after setting aside their beliefs and elected to send out a coded SOS to likeminded allies, but that still leaves us the encryption to contend with. If they were willing to help the UNSC, why give it such a high level of security? A simple SOS would have been sufficient.

'Worst case scenario sees us going up against the entire population of the bunker, human and Covenant, with an entire armada of hostile ships heading our way looking to use Kohl as the springboard for an anti-UNSC confederacy.'

There was a slight pause before Tara came back with, 'You're a real ray of sunshine at times, Commander. You know that, right?'

'One of us has to be.'

 **Spartan-B124, Newport subway system, city of Newport. 0658 Hours, February 11, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

Nothing came for the Spartan during the night and he was underway shortly before sunrise, stepping out of the hotel to find it was still snowing but with minimal wind, the fat and lazy flakes starting the arduous task of filling in the deep trenches Scott left behind as he marched through the snow, kicking great flurries up with every step as he followed Tara's directions to a subway station a few hundred metres away that served as one of the main entrances into the bunker complex.

The entrance itself was nothing fancy, plain and utilitarian decor that became more artistic the further down into the ground a person went with a bas-relief around the bottom of the stairs signalling the beginning of more intricate designs within the station itself. This station seemed to favour an aquatic flavouring to its imagery with murals of fish, ships and sunsets at sea dotting the walls, rendered dull and lifeless by darkness and dust. It reminded Scott of New Vegas when seen during the day, the neon signs advertising each casino losing most of their glamour without bright colours to draw the eye.

He shook the thought from his head and vaulted a turnstile, finding himself on the platform. Scattered items littered the wide expanse of concrete, personal things like in Glukhovsky, but there were less of them here than in the space elevator. Fewer people had rushed into this underground sanctuary, and on a more forgiving timetable, giving people a greater chance at keeping hold of their precious belongings, or being able to come back for them.

Scott mentally shrugged and jumped down onto the empty track, walking into the tunnel it either came out of or went in to, depending on the direction of travel, until he came upon a heavy set of double doors that marked the start of the gigantic bunker complex hidden even further below ground. They looked formidable, even partly open, and capable of withstanding anything anyone might see fit to throw at them.

The hinges voiced their protest at being moved quite audibly when Scott pulled one half open to reveal a plain set of stairs beyond that descended straight down. A thick layer of dust covered everything in sight with countless amounts of particulates making their downwards journey getting caught in the beams from Scott's torches, making him glad he was breathing the air through a robust set of filters.

Then, shouldering his rifle, he started down the steps.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 0715 Hours, February 11, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

There wasn't much that Scott felt he was consciously afraid of and not because he believed that, as a Spartan, he had to maintain the image he was a flawless superhuman, but because to him being afraid of something was the same as not understanding it, like with spiders. Being afraid of them was one of the most common fears and phobias to plague humanity despite only a handful of the fifty or so thousand species being potentially harmful to humans, and even then they only attacked when they felt trapped. What creature would willingly take on another that was, literally, a hundred times its size?

Even as a child, Scott hadn't displayed the same level of fear as others his age when presented with something unusual, or unexpected. Rather, his reaction was to clench his fists and hunch his shoulders, readying for a fight, whilst studying the object or creature that had startled the others for anything of use in dealing with it. His father had often joked he was old before his time, taking things too seriously when he should be running around outside with his friends, which eventually led to him being made a team leader during training.

The closest Scott came to having any kind of recognisable fear was a sense of unease and paranoia when he was working in completely dark areas like underground tunnels or stricken ships, even if between his augmented vision and the MJOLNIR armour's advanced optical packages there was never anywhere that was truly dark. Technically speaking, it was the primitive part of his brain rearing its head once the lack of light was detected, latching onto every unusually shape in the shadows or far off sound and trying to identify it, and sending a small burst of adrenaline into his system in preparation for a hostile encounter.

Intellectually, Scott knew exactly what he should be encountering in the blackness and could formulate an appropriate response beforehand, but his baser levels weren't quite so well informed and with his fight or flight response firmly conditioned towards fight, every time he saw something that _might_ be a threat his subconscious mind amped him up for combat and gave him an unnecessary surge of adrenaline that got him wound up. Tara had once compared his vitals during a mission conducted in complete darkness to one when there was a sliver of light, showing there was a five percent increase across the board.

Bizarrely, once contact had been made with a hostile entity, the paranoia went away and the adrenaline only came when he was under direct attack rather than catching sight of a strange lump in the corner of his eye, or a hiss that might or might not have been imagined. Until this happened, a soft counter to the paranoia was to turn on his torches and let them pierce the darkness, even if this painted a very bright target on his back for any troops that might wish to cause him harm. The light from his rifle only went a few metres but could be seen from a much further distance.

Scott panned it from side to side as he moved down the corridor at a cautious pace, looking for any evidence that people were still down here in the complex but saw nothing beyond scattered magazines, spent casings and cracks in the walls from stray plasma bolts. The corridor itself was four metres wide, two tall, and built from concrete with emergency bulkheads every few dozen metres that were, in theory, supposed to help compartmentalise the bunker in cases of quarantine or a reactor failure, though they needed to be triggered manually during attacks given the often fast pace of modern warfare, either by somebody in the central hub or the nearest security office, and the fact none of them had been slammed shut told Scott the Covenant had forced their way in at a rapid pace, or that few of the people who sought shelter within the bunker knew how to operate its security systems.

The first door the Spartan came across that was closed by any measure led into this section's processing centre, where the fleeing residents would announce themselves and be allocated a room within the residential areas. It was three or four times wider than the corridor and boasted an extra metre of headroom, allowing Scott to stand fully upright, with barriers and railings creating ten lanes that would have herded people to the processing desks where kindly faced officials would check people's names off on their terminals and send them on their way.

In theory, the process was sound with each desk responsible for four-hundred people each, either alone or in groups, with ample space in the corridor leading up to the processing centre to hold all four-thousand or so people assigned to this residential sector so long as they didn't mind cramped conditions. In practice, it would have been total anarchy given that, if people were rushing into the bunker, some cataclysm had taken place and waiting patiently would be the last thing on their mind. They'd swarm the processing centre, vault the desks and stream into the residential sector as quickly as their feet could carry them.

Fights would break out, people would be killed, order would give way to chaos and the first few days, maybe even weeks, within the bunker would be better described as total anarchy as the officials in charge tried to regain some semblance of control.

Of course, as the adage goes, no plan survives first contact with the enemy and the colonists of Newport never got the chance to swarm the processing centres, turning tail for the space tether instead. For those who went underground for sanctuary, the room became an ad hoc line of defence with the desks and barriers being used as cover for the Marines and militia members trying to fend off the Covenant long enough for someone to close the barriers, though the foot thick slabs of titanium and steel had held out for only so long.

From the looks of the blast pattern and slagged edges, plasma grenades had been used in copious amounts to open a hole big enough for an Elite to crawl through, which made it big enough for Scott to squeeze through, and soon he found himself standing amidst the aftermath of the defensive action. Other than the numerous scattered magazines and occasional abandoned rifle, the only things of interest in the room were the remains of the Covenant's rank and file, mummified as a result of the low temperatures and low humidity in the facility.

Seeing their shrunken corpses was welcoming in a way for the Spartan, even if he preferred seeing them freshly slain, but he couldn't fail to note there were only the bodies of Grunts, low ranking ones judging by their armour colour, and a few Jackals. The lack of Elites told that either A, they hadn't participated in the exploration of the lower levels, or B, some had gotten stuck on Kohl and taken the time to bury their fallen comrades out of respect.

If that were the case, how many had found themselves left behind all those years ago and how many still survived to this day? There was little chance their numbers had increased given no female Elites had ever been seen on the field of battle, only the males, so reproduction was not an issue, and any human survivors would have done their utmost to cull the alien warriors to improve their own chances at lasting until help arrived.

Scott wondered if he'd be adding to that tally as he took a moment to collect up all the discarded human weapons and place them in a rough heap in one corner, an emergency stash should he need it, and continued onwards into the next room, the first actual part of the bunker people would find themselves in. It was a wide open plaza that seemed cavernous after the cramped spaces of the access corridor and the processing centre, boasting an artificial skylight and a glass floor that allowed newcomers to look down at their new home for the foreseeable future, and much like they would have done the Spartan came to a halt in the middle of the floor to take it all in.

It looked like someone had taken four apartment blocks, each forty-five floors high, and arranged them into a cross with the centre left open and ringed with balconies, with a small park on the very bottom floor almost a quarter of a kilometre away providing some greenery in such an expanse of concrete and metal though two decades of zero maintenance had reduced it to a withered patch of brown. Barring the community floors every five stories, each offering things like cafeterias, medical facilities and schools, each floor was able to hold a hundred people in ten rooms, assuming they didn't mind hot bunking with others, and Scott could only imagine the place would have been a vibrant and welcoming place at full capacity.

Now it just seemed depressing, a dim tomb to the colonists who never got a chance to make use of this fantastical and bizarre emergency shelter that shifted millions of tons of rock and metal and dirt to protect against threats that no longer existed, and only became more outdated with the reveal of the Covenant and their utter hatred for humanity. He could only shake his head and move towards the next set of doors that led into the transport hub for this complex, only to find they were jammed shut.

'Where's the override?' Scott asked as he looked the door over, yet another foot thick slab of metal designed to protect against conventional attacks or foreign contaminants. A lack of power or poor maintenance, or perhaps deliberate sabotage, had sealed it shut, though safety requirements and common sense mandated some way to manually open the portal in dire situations.

'There,' Tara said, flashing a waypoint onto a nearby wall panel that came off easy enough, clattering to the floor in a great plume of dust and noise, to reveal a mass of wires, piping and linkages that made up the technical side of the bunker, and with access to the relevant schematics Tara was soon guiding Scott's hands to initiate an override of the doors.

There was a faint hiss and some louder scraping but they parted, albeit by just a few inches, revealing the darkened tram station beyond. Scott worked his fingers into the gap between the doors and hauled them further open, flexing and straining to overcome both their weight and the dry runners they sat on until the small sliver of space was wide enough for him to step through but once he did, the baser parts of his mind began calling for him to return upon seeing the tram station in full.

Like the processing centre it was a cramped room considering that people wouldn't be staying in it for too long, and that some of the space had to be given over to the tram tracks and their associated infrastructure, but the unnerving part came from the gaping holes that were the tunnel entrances. There were no trams in the station, either on the north-south line or on the outermost ring, and no gates had come down onto the tracks, leaving the tunnels completely exposed but, unlike the rest of the complex and the subway station above, Scott's augmented vision failed to pierce the darkness of the concrete construct past a few metres. Even the torch on his rifle did little to illuminate the bare walls or the dusty tracks.

For an instance, in less time than it took to blink, a jolt of terror ran up the Spartan's spine and he took half a step backwards, his rifle almost snapping to the ready position on reflex, but he forced himself to lower it and take a firm step forward.

'Are you okay?' Tara whispered into his ear, no doubt tracking his vitals and noting the sudden spikes.

'Yes,' Scott said. 'I...'

He trailed off and tried to piece together why the sight of the tunnel had made him almost drop into a combat stance, his fight or flight response kicking in more strongly than ever before, but couldn't fathom an answer. Darkness was nothing special. It had no mystical properties that transformed a normally safe location into a monster infested pit, nor called forth demons and ghouls from the underworld, or simply swallowed people whole. Rather, it was merely the absence of light, and given humanity was predominantly reliant on sight to accomplish their tasks it was a given that being deprived of this sense would cause alarm.

This was something Scott had long ago learned, even before the glassing of Albion and his induction into the Spartan-III program, and which his training and augmentations had instilled further. There were no creatures that went bump in the night or demons that emerged from the shadows to feast on the flesh the unsuspecting, just the ones people created for themselves which, during combat, was very useful. Under Scott's command, Grey Team had plagued more than a few Insurrection and Covenant camps with night time incursions, kidnapping members and leaving bloody messes behind until those who remained were so paranoid and scared that assaulting the place was little more than a training exercise.

So why had the mere sight of a tunnel with shadows that refused to yield to his night vision and torches caused him to feel a pang of terror, no matter how quickly it had passed?

'Yes,' Scott said again. 'I'm fine.'

'Okay,' Tara said. 'Tagging the nearest terminal.'

Another waypoint flashed into view on his HUD, directing him to a nearby security office containing a single terminal and a swivel chair, and Scott wasted little time in moving to it or prising the door open. The only other items of interest was a small locker containing two M6D pistols and ten full magazines, though a quick check revealed they were no longer usable. Twenty-one years of being stored with a full load of rounds had forced the magazine's spring to accept its new shape, and refused to feed a new round once the topmost one was removed. The rounds themselves might still be viable but the magazines weren't, so Scott left them where they were as he turned to the office's sole computer.

It booted up quicker than the ones in the space tether and Tara was soon working her magic on the antiquated coding, breaking through firewalls and security lockouts with a speed few humans could hope to match until a sparse desktop appeared on the screen, the official emblem of Newport set as the backdrop, and her avatar flickered to life atop a holotank.

'Two and a half seconds,' Scott said. 'Slightly better.'

'Still quicker than you,' Tara said. 'Wait one and I'll pull up a map of the complex, see what's what and who's where.'

True to her word, a mere second was all it took to generate a top down view of the complex, taken directly from the archived files, with the addition of annotations and readouts from the various systems that kept track of the mechanical health of the bunker to create a mosaic of colour that offered some insight into the state of the bunker. Green lights meant little to no damage was present, orange meant damage had been detected but it wasn't critical, red meant the damage was critical and needed immediate attendance, whilst grey signalled a total loss of either signal or operation within that area.

There was little green on the map. Most was orange or red with grey dotted here and there, primarily the numerous tunnels connecting the complexes but, worryingly, this included some of the reactor spaces and the central government hub.

'Great,' Scott said. 'Damage report?'

'Not good, I'm afraid,' Tara said. 'I'm detecting numerous faults with doors, mainly to do with them either being locked shut via circumvention of overrides or being blasted to pieces, whilst in extreme cases entire _sections_ of tunnel have collapsed to block all access. I can't tell from the surviving camera feeds if this was intentional or not, but they'll likely hamper our progress.'

'And the reactors?'

'Containment failure. They're spewing radiation in limited quantities, though the north-eastern one is reporting a total system failure with high levels of radioactive materials in the air. The blast doors have sealed automatically and even overridden the overrides. The only way we're getting through them is with heavy duty cutting gear.

'As for the government sector, I'm not detecting anything from the systems located there. The last time it communicated was the day after the Covenant assaulted the city, so maybe it got hit pretty badly by demolitions teams or the ventral beam of a ship.'

'Maybe,' Scott said. 'If there's time, we'll check it out. Show me current power usage and access the security feeds for those areas if you can.'

'Working,' Tara said. 'Done. It looks like power is getting sent to six of the complexes, though most of the security feeds have been destroyed. Some remain and- Ah.'

'Ah, what?' Scott said.

'The ones that remain show a sizeable Covenant garrison composed mainly of Jackals, plus maybe thirty Elites of varying rank. Ultra and Major, mainly, plus a few Rangers. Worse, they're in the next complex to us, to the east'

Scott cast his gaze to the tunnel leading eastwards almost on reflex, one hand on his pistol, as though expecting the Covenant remnants to come streaming out towards him at the mere revelation of their presence but the tunnel remained silent and empty, and his hand dropped.

'Jackal strength estimate?' he asked.

'Upwards of two-hundred,' Tara said after a moment. 'Based on what I can see, but only a few are fully armed and armoured with standard Covenant gear. The rest are using makeshift equipment and UNSC weaponry. Huh, that's strange.'

'What?' Scott said.

'There's a high amount of deformities within their ranks like withered limbs or misshapen body parts.'

'The Covenant doesn't usually send out soldiers with birth defects like that,' Scott said as Tara selected feeds showing these warped Jackals. 'They must be the offspring of the Jackals who were left behind, and had adverse reactions to the radiation being given off by the reactor. It is one of the faulty ones, correct?'

'Yes,' Tara said.

'That's it, then,' the Spartan said. 'We've found female Jackals before, and without their Grunts the Elites would want more fodder for their war against the human survivors. Twenty years is time enough to raise a new generation, indoctrinate them and train them to fight.'

'Think they'll be any trouble?'

'No.'

Looking back to the map, Scott roughed out a route in his head towards the other complexes still drawing power, noting they seemed to be grouped together into two sections. The closest was composed mainly of the southwest line, plus the first of the western residential sections, but the circular tunnels connecting it with the southern line were all greyed out, indicating a cessation of operation in the form of collapse if the cameras were anything to go by. The second section was smaller, made up of just three complexes. These were the northernmost residential sector, the north-western reactor and the adjacent storage centre.

Judging by the greyed out tunnels, getting here would require a long and possibly dangerous route to get there. First, he would have to travel to the innermost circle of the bunker then head to the eastern line, followed by punching east to the outermost line and then looping north through the breached reactor, a trek of almost eight miles. Alternatively, he could just return to the surface and follow a more or less straight path to the entry tunnels that served the northern sections, but the colonists of Newport might be lacking in cold weather gear to face the arctic conditions up above.

Even going to the southwest line required him to walk almost three miles to simply _reach_ the entrance to that section, followed by another three miles to get to the reactor space. Had the trams been working, he could have just taken one of those but Scott doubted they were still in operation any more, leaving him to rely on the most basic, and most reliable, form of transportation combat infantry had: their feet.

Once Tara was back in his head, the Spartan shouldered his rifle and headed for the northern transport tunnels to resume his search.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 0737 Hours, February 11, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

With the knowledge that he wasn't alone in the tunnels came the calming effect on his fight or flight response, and with the silencing of that came the extinguishing of all lights to plunge the tunnels back into utter darkness as the lone Spartan stole his way along one of the cramped concrete tubes. His rifle was nestled against his shoulder, muzzle just a few degrees below horizontal and ready to fire the instant a threat presented itself, and his eyes swept from side to side with every step for anything of note.

So far, beyond the discarded rifles and pistols of the security area and the processing centre, and the mummified Grunt corpses, Scott hadn't seen anything worth investigating in the tunnel connecting the southernmost residential area with the next one along, itself an empty tomb host to nothing but dust and silence for forty-five stories. Here and there he saw ricochet marks from bullets or scoring from plasma weapons, suggesting running battles between the defenders and attackers, but they were twenty years old by this point and offered no new information.

This all changed once he made it to the topmost complex of the southern line and entered the transit tunnels connecting it to the adjacent storage and manufacturing facility on the southwest leg of the facility, and nearest facility drawing power that wasn't staffed by Covenant remnants. At least, he hoped this was the case. Given the absolute lack of security camera feeds from these complexes, somebody had to have smashed or disconnected them to stop others from viewing them as a precaution against gathering intelligence ahead of an assault, and Scott doubted the Covenant were smart enough to do this.

To start with, they'd have to know the cameras were there and judging by the schematics Tara had pulled up, they were as small as possible to avoid detection by any hostile forces that invaded the bunker. So long as someone with the right access and knowledge was at the controls of a security terminal, they could track any foreign bodies as they moved through the tunnels and send appropriately sized forces to deal with them. Secondly, Elites wouldn't think to expect this by and large.

They viewed humanity as inferior, backwards and heretical beings who had only managed to survive this long against their cunning and intellect through cowardice and luck alone rather than skill and superior strategy. It would only occur to a few to look for surveillance systems, most often the higher ranked members who wouldn't be leading a supposedly routine sweep and clear operation in an underground warren, and those who headed below would be the more bloodthirsty of the bunch looking forward to the thrill of the hunt.

Given they hadn't thought to consider looking for cameras after so long suggested either they couldn't find them, or the human survivors had managed to weave a masterful deception operation that fooled them into thinking each decisive encounter was nothing more than luck rather than careful preparation based on up to date intelligence.

As he entered the transit tunnels between the residential complex and the storage facility, Scott saw that most of the security doors had slammed shut, only for those on one of the pedestrian tunnels to have been blasted open again by plasma grenades and crude cutting gear fashioned from welding equipment. They gave the impression the tunnel was actually some beast baring its teeth against a threat, or perhaps getting ready to tear up anyone foolish to enter its maw until they were nothing more than bloodied shreds. Of a more interesting note, actual spatters of blood were dotted here and there along the floors and walls that were either from an impact wound, where a high calibre round had made contact with and torn through the pliable flesh of its target, or from an injured party that had stopped and leaned heavily against the wall whilst clutching a newly inflicted and profusely bleeding wound.

The colour of the bloodstains suggested Elites and Jackals judging by the faded but recognisable purple hue. Any human blood would have turned dark, black almost, from the oxidisation of the iron contained within the haemoglobin being released, and Scott lacked both the time and equipment to search for it, nor did he feel the need to. Any stains he might find could have been made well over twenty years ago during the Covenant attack, or perhaps even during the initial construction of the bunker complex by clumsy workers.

 _If_ he had the right equipment, and _if_ he found a bloodstain belonging to a human, it wouldn't be much for Scott to get excited about. He knew people had been alive as recently as seventeen months ago, and two sets of complexes were still drawing power in sufficient quantities to suggest sizeable populations in both areas, so it was more than reasonable to think people were still eking out a life down here. Finding _that_ would be something to get excited about.

'No funny feelings about this one, then?' Tara said with a hint of mirth in her voice as the Spartan stepped past the first of the mauled security doors.

'No,' Scott said. 'No funny feelings, though I do keep hearing this disembodied voice in my head.'

'Do you?' Tara said.

'Yes. Kind of shrill, mildly annoying, terrible electronic warble, always going on about useless information. You haven't heard it?'

'Not as such, Commander, but I'm suffering weird sensations myself.'

'Oh? Do tell.'

'Well, it feels like I'm enclosed inside some abnormally thick box that keeps getting bounced around rather violently, which is bad considering I'm the only thing of note inside it.'

A small, wry smile crept onto Scott's face as he continued down the corridor as he said, 'How unfortunate.'

'Yes, isn't it?'

The banter they shared was one of the main reasons why Scott liked working with Tara on deployments, other than her ability to hack into secure electronic locks and computer systems, and why he thought her to be one of the better AIs the UNSC had to offer. Many of the others he had met, or more rarely worked with, showed more stunted personalities or outright disinterest in him and his team if they happened to engage in conversation beyond the mission requirements. Even Sasha, the AI assigned to the _Heavy Hitter_ before its destruction over a parallel Earth, was aloof and laconic when she happened to communicate with him.

Tara, on the other hand, always seemed to know just what to say to draw a soft smile onto his features or, in exceptional circumstances, a chuckle. Perhaps it was because she had worked with him for more than a few days, and because she essentially resided within his head, though part of Scott wondered if ONI had specifically chosen her out of all the available AIs to be paired with him according to psychological and psychiatric reports and studies, wanting the best possible matchup to guarantee the best possible combat effectiveness in the field.

He also wondered at times just what Tara had been like before she became an AI, or more technically what her donor had been like. Humanity had yet to perfect the ability to create artificial intelligences from scratch, requiring the use of a donor brain that was used as a template for the subsequent AI's neural pathways. The creation process, which Scott barely understood, destroyed the original tissue meaning they could only use the brains of the dead. While the new AI was its own creature, they often retained 'ghosts', or holdover memories and feelings of who they were before, and Scott often speculated how much of Tara's personality was the result of coding and what were the quirks of who she was beforehand.

Once he made it roughly halfway into the tunnel, his speculations about Tara vanished the moment he found himself amidst the remains of a battle, or perhaps a series of battles that had taken place within two sets of security doors. The walls, floor and ceiling were pockmarked from stray rounds and bolts, or scorched and pepped by fragmentation grenades, with the parts of the floor that weren't charred by a grenade exploding stained by blood, from Jackals and Elites mainly but there were the occasional patches of human red.

Oddly, many of the Covenant patches showed evidence of the body that had created them was dragged away _towards_ the warehouse complex, where the human survivors were likely living. Scott frowned and cocked his head to the side as he pondered this fact, trying to come up with a suitable theory. Interrogation of still living but grievously wounded hostiles seemed plausible but, with the still active security cameras in the Covenant's sector, why would they need to know how many remained, or when they'd be launching an attack?

An act of mercy maybe? But again, why? The colonists living in this bunker had no reason to render any aid to the Covenant given they were the ones who had attacked and glassed Kohl, and forced them underground. A swift shot to the head would be more likely, and use up less resources bound to be in short supply.

'Any theories?' Scott asked.

'No,' Tara said. 'I'm just as bewildered as you.'

'Comforting,' Scott said as he stood, rifle at the ready. 'You're supposed to know everything and keep me informed. It doesn't bode well if we're both in the dark.'

There was a pause before Tara said, 'I can't tell if you're making a joke or using an expression.'

'Maybe it's both,' Scott muttered as he pressed on.

The tunnel was roughly three-quarters of a mile with security doors every two dozen metres, making for fifty of the heavy items between the two complexes, and each and every one of them had been slammed shut, only for hostiles to cut their way through them. Starting at about the twentieth door, roughly where the first battle had taken place, each section showed damage from a hard fought fight between two opposing forces in varying intensities. At each, Scott saw the drag marks in the blood from where the Covenant troops were taken away towards the warehouse. Each time he could only speculate as to the meaning.

By the time he reached the final ten doors, the battle damage had started to peter out until there was none at all, and the blast doors were neither sealed shut nor blasted open, but retracted into the walls awaiting deployment. In their place were metre high barricades built from a triple layering of cinderblocks spanning the whole width of the tunnel, showing signs of damage from both plasma bolts and rifle rounds, and Scott started to think that a civil war had broken out but quickly recalled the Jackals he had seen carrying human weapons.

He vaulted the barrier and those beyond it with ease until he came to the second to last one standing between him and the tram station for this complex, taking a knee beside it instead and peering over the lip at the very last barrier. That one was two layers taller than those before it with gaps in the brickwork, rudimentary firing ports, but of a more important note was the presence of five soft shapes kneeling behind it, one of which was broadcasting an IFF tag.

Tara was quick to pull up the data it offered, announcing that the owner was one Anthony Cline, a corporal in the Kohl Colonial Militia listed as MIA, presumed KIA, following the Covenant's attack. That made Scott pause rather than drive him into action given Colonial Militia members, particularly on Outer Colonies like Kohl, often harboured feelings of ill will towards members of the UNSC with more than a few siding with the Insurrection after buying into their propaganda. Worse, twenty years of isolation beneath a frigid wasteland might have instilled a deeper seated hatred of the UNSC and all those who served it.

Might seeing a Spartan, who the Insurrection claimed were little more than thugs who worked to extend the grasp of the greedy politicians and corporations that ruled the Inner Colonies, kick his trigger finger into overdrive? Or might he and those around him break down into tears at knowing salvation was at hand?

'Plan?' Tara whispered in his ear.

'Announce myself and go from there,' Scott whispered back. 'At least we know there's life down here now, and possible hostiles, so that part of our mission's done. If he opens fire, we respond in kind and alert _Falcon_ of what we've found before engaging in guerrilla warfare until reinforcements arrive. If he doesn't, we meet with the others and then report to _Falcon_.'

'You make it sound so simple.'

'I try.'

Scott poked his head above the barrier again and called out to Cline by name. Who knew what promotions or demotions had been slapped down on him after two decades, or if he even still considered himself to be a member of the KCM anymore. He flinched upon hearing his name being called out by such a loud and commanding voice, as did the four others with him, and they quickly appeared to aim their rifles into the tunnel. All carried MA5 assault rifles, obsolete weapons by contemporary standards but still adequate enough to kill enemy targets with, and reliable enough to still be working after all this time.

'Who's there?' Cline shouted back. 'Show yourself.'

'Lieutenant Commander SPARTAN-B124,' Scott said. 'UNSC Navy.'

'A Spartan?' Cline almost sputtered. 'For real? You'd better not be shitting me.'

'I'm not,' Scott said. 'Lower your guns and I'll step out.'

Cline scoffed. 'Like hell. How do I know you're not actually lying, and you're actually some Split-Chin with a translator, trying to get the drop on us?'

'How do I know you won't open fire on me the moment I show myself?'

'If you're a real Spartan, you'll have one of them fancy suits,' Cline said. 'More than enough to handle five rifles like we've got, and be quick enough to take us out with just your bare hands before we get a chance to reload.

'Actually, there's an idea. Show us your hand only. We'll snap on our lights, you hold your hand up, and if you're a real Spartan we'll be able to see it. Sound good?'

'Yes,' Scott said.

A second later, the tunnel was bathed with soft yellow light from five aging underslung torches that still seemed dazzling bright in the dark confines of the tunnel. Scott raised his hand as requested, and a fair portion of his forearm, and shocked gasps erupted from the tram station as the five guards got a glimpse of the MJOLNIR armour. Even so, Cline wasn't fully convinced and, believing this might still be part of an Elite trick, asked for the Spartan to make a gesture undeniably human. Scott, feeling slightly exasperated, thought of what his fallen teammate Mike would have done in this situation.

So he stuck his middle finger up at Cline.

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 0815 Hours, February 11, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

Against all odds it worked, and rather than feel insulted at getting flipped off by a Spartan Cline responded by breaking down into a huge fit of laughter, clutching his sides and rolling around on the floor of the tram station as tears streamed from his eyes. The guards who were with him could only look down at their fellow comrade in confusion at his actions. At least, when they weren't staring at Scott with awed expressions at the titanic figure standing amongst them, that is, treating him like some holy deity that had descended from the high heavens to save them in a time of need.

One of the more courageous amongst them had come up and placed his hand on Scott's arm, squeezing the toughened plating as though making sure this was really happening. He looked to be in his early twenties, perhaps not even out of his teens yet, with a scrawny build and pale skin that told the whole world he had spent his entire life in the bunker. They all did apart from Cline, who was closing in on the age of fifty according to his service record.

'Oh, man,' he said between chuckles, wiping tears from his eyes. 'Oh, man, I never thought I'd see that. A Spartan, an actual freaking _Spartan_ , gave me the finger. Oh, god. Oh, man. Oh, we have got to introduce you to Dale as soon as, man. He's a Spartan, too.'

'He is?' Scott said, confused. According to the records, no Spartan-IIs had taken part in the battle, and the Spartan-III program was less than a year old by that point and still training the initial candidates. 'There was never any Spartan involvement in the Battle of Kohl.'

Cline waved him off and said, 'Oh, no, he's not a Spartan like you. No, he claims to be from the, uh, first generation.'

'No Spartan-IIs were present on Kohl during the attack.'

'Older than that,' Cline said. 'The original one, apparently. The Spartan-I program, he calls it.'

'It was the ORION Project originally,' Tara said. 'They dubbed it Spartan-I retroactively long after the program was disbanded in 2502. Records do show the participation of one Dale, Richards, Sergeant, though he'd be seventy-three years of age by this point.'

'Wha...?' Cline said. 'I thought you were a guy?'

'That's Tara, an AI I'm paired with,' Scott said, tapping the side of his helmet. 'You get used to hearing her voice. Eventually.'

'Wow,' one of the other guards whispered in amazement.

'But, yeah, what she's saying is true,' Cline said. 'Dale's an old coot but he's meaner than most. He'd still be able to kick your ass.' He looked Scott up and down. 'Well, maybe not you...'

'Anyway,' he said. 'Come on. Let's introduce you.'

'Of course,' Scott said, gesturing for Cline to carry on.

The four other guards stayed behind in the tunnel, the arrival of a Spartan apparently not enough to warrant them abandoning their posts, waving goodbye to Scott as he followed Cline towards the residential complex located on the western tunnel. Like before, the security doors were retracted and concrete barricades had been built in the gaps between them to enable a staggered retreat should the place be assaulted. Unlike before, though, the signs of battle were minimal at most with the very occasional mark from a bullet and never from any plasma weaponry. Evidently, the Covenant who had attacked Kohl back in 2532 never made it this far, or had missed it entirely during their underground hunts.

Another new feature was the presence of lights starting about halfway into the tunnel, nothing more than some dim semblance of illumination to start with but the longer they walked, the brighter they became, as though allowing returning guards a chance to adjust their eyes ahead of the fully illuminated tram station that served the first of the residential complexes on the western tunnel.

Heavy weapon emplacements consisting of machineguns greeted Scott and his escort when they finally reached the station, three of them mounted at the very last barrier with high intensity floodlights set directly forward of them to blind attackers. Once Cline came into view, with Scott in tow, all the lights in the tunnel and station shut down and the floodlights kicked in, dazzling white compared to the softer yellow from before.

Cline held up a hand to cover his eyes against the barrage and said, 'For fuck's sake, shut them down! It's me!'

'Who's that you're with?' came a voice from behind the lights, gruff and commanding but tinged with youth. 'It doesn't look like anything I've seen before.'

'Because it's a goddamned Spartan!' Cline shouted. 'An actual Spartan, ya mouth breathing asshole!'

'A Spartan?' the voice yelled. 'No way. You're joking.'

'He's not,' Scott said, taking a step forward. 'Lieutenant Commander SPARTAN-B124, UNSC Navy.'

He squinted against the harshness of the lights, trying to discern who was where, but even with his augmented vision and the polarisation features of his helmet he was struggling to do so, until all at once the floodlights snapped off and the regular lights came back on. All three machineguns were manned by more scrawny troops, with perhaps a dozen more stood behind them holding rifles at the ready, their weapons trained on Scott.

'Guns down!' another voice ordered, again commanding respect but where the first person sounded young, this person had several more years on them, and perhaps a smoking and drinking habit. 'Guns down, you idiots. Open fire on a Spartan and you sign your own death warrants!'

The troops hesitated but complied, pointing their rifles downwards as a newcomer came hurrying out of a nearby stairwell, dressed in a thoroughly abused set of Marine fatigues bearing the twin bars of a captain that a neural lace broadcast confirmed.

Captain Amanda Swanson jogged up to the tunnel Scott and Cline were in before coming up short upon laying eyes proper on the armoured giant, staring at him in awe for several moments and then executing a near parade perfect salute, snapping to attention.

'Sir,' she said. 'Captain Swanson, UNSC Marine Corps, 102nd Division, 23rd Regiment.'

'As you were, captain,' Scott said, returning her salute.

'Sir, are you... are you really here?' Swanson asked. 'I mean, after all these years, we've just sorta...'

She trailed off and made vague motions at something off in the distance, her gaze losing focus for a moment or two, only to jolt back to reality as Scott stepped over the final barricade and strode up to her until he towered above the captain, holding his hand out for her to shake.

'I'm really here, captain,' he said. 'We've come to rescue you.'

Swanson stared up at Scott, her expression blank, and rather than take his hand she threw her arms around his waist and gave him a hug, bursting into tears as a torrent of gratitude erupted from her mouth. The older troops in the room, those who had been born above ground and before the Covenant assault, and were old enough to have more than hazy memories of life up above, joined their captain in embracing the Spartan as they wept, or hugged one another in elation at finally being able to leave the bunker after two decades. Cline partook in the latter, wrapping the nearest trooper who was just as old as him in a bear hug, shouting incomprehensible exultations that had to have been building from the moment he saw Scott fully step into view.

The Spartan himself felt more than a little uncomfortable at being on the receiving end of so much attention, but short of throwing off the dozen or so people surrounding him he would just have to endure it as best he could, and hope they gathered themselves together before too long.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 0900 Hours, February 11, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

Stepping inside a residential complex that was actually in use was far more welcoming than entering one left to the ravages of time. Where there had been nothing but dust and darkness were lights and sound, actual life that turned the drab concrete structures into a home host to several thousand people who refused to die with the rest of the planet, with crude planters lining the balconies that boasted countless thousands of plants and flowers to add some colour to the place and more pleasant fragrances.

Scott only caught a few hints that managed to slip past the filters in his helmet as Swanson, Cline, and all the older militia members escorted him into the residential section to meet with the ruling council and tell them the good news, and to fill them in on what had happened during the intervening years. As they did, more and more people joined the procession, drawn initially by the large crowd before becoming captivated by the Spartan in their midst, with rumours and whispers of rescue quickly escaping from the lips of everyone who could put two and two together.

By the time they reached the apartment that served as the council's main offices, the crowd had grown to be a hundred strong or more, with fresh bodies joining every minute. Swanson, with Scott just behind her, strode up to the door with a spring in her step to knock three times, announcing her presence and silencing the crowd behind her. Scant seconds flew by before the door was hauled open and a wizened old man stepped into view, the alleged Spartan-I if he was to be believed.

Dale looked at Swanson first, as though waiting for her to explain why she had knocked, but soon his attention was diverted to Scott and the crowd, and the implications of what his presence meant for everyone in the bunker. Unlike Cline, who had erupted into cheers, or Swanson, who had broken down in tears, Dale let his legs give out from beneath him in shock as he fell to the floor without uttering a single word, staring up at the Spartan with a dazed expression.

'No way,' he whispered hoarsely. 'No way.'

'Yes way, sir,' Swanson said as she knelt down next to her superior. 'He's come to rescue us.'

'No way,' Dale whispered again as Scott took a knee next to him.

'It's true, sir,' he said. 'There can be a rescue fleet here within two months to take you all back to Earth.'

'Two months?' Dale said, apparently in a daze. His expression hadn't changed beyond that of disbelief, nor had his tone of voice risen above mute shock, but all at once he blinked and shook his head, clearing it, and became more focused.

He got to his feet, helped a little by Swanson, and stood before the Spartan at attention, snapping off a salute much like the captain had upon first seeing him and reeled off his old service number, rank and name, which Scott responded in kind with.

'Please, come into my office, Commander,' Dale said, gesturing to the room behind him. 'I get the feeling there's a lot we all need to catch up on after twenty years.' He turned to Swanson. 'Captain, you know what to do. Make sure they do it properly.'

'Yes, sir,' she said, saluting and departing with all the troops that had followed her down to do whatever pre-prepared plans the survivors had in place for the arrival of rescue forces. Likely the packing of valuables and retrieving of cold weather gear, ready for the ships, and Scott glanced at her as she left before following Dale, ducking under the low doorway to enter his office.

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 0930 Hours, February 11, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

'Have we won?'

It was the first question Dale had for Scott and probably the one he needed to know the answer to the most, of whether or not humanity had managed to defeat the Covenant after all these years of genocide and eradication, and he let out a relieved sigh upon hearing a positive answer.

'Not without great cost, though,' Scott said. 'Humanity's down to a handful of colonies and communications are patchy. Some have gone dark, others rouge, and more than a few of the ones we still hold were attacked by the Covenant. Recolonisation of some is underway but, the UNSC's getting stretched thin after the Battle of Earth, and without Reach we can't replace ships as quickly as we once could.'

'And the Covenant?' Dale asked. 'Are they still out there?'

'Yes,' Scott said. 'And no. They underwent a civil war approximately four months ago and splintered into several different groups. Reports vary but most attribute it to some major shift in the military hierarchy and revelations about their core beliefs.'

'Any idea what?'

Scott shook his head and said, 'No, sir, but it was significant enough to make the Elites ally themselves with us.'

'Say what?' Dale said. 'The Elites allied with us?'

'Yes, sir,' Scott said.

'No,' Dale said, shaking his head. 'No, that-that can't be right. They tried to wipe us out for more than three decades. Why would they suddenly turn around and help us?'

'Unknown, sir,' Scott said. 'The exact cause is classified by ONI, but rumours say it's to do with their belief system. I didn't believe it myself, but they showed me helmet footage of Elites working alongside the Master Chief to fight against Brutes.'

That gave the elder man pause for thought, hearing that SPARTAN-117 had fought with the Elites against another of the Covenant's client species, though the look on his face told Scott he was still having a hard time actually believing it, or at least accepting the sudden shift in allegiances by the Covenant's longstanding military leaders after so many years of them hunting humanity into extinction.

'You're absolutely certain they changed sides?' Dale asked.

'Yes, sir,' Scott said. 'I'm certain.'

Dale dumped himself into a leather lined chair at hearing that, a battered affair that was probably recovered from one of the buildings up above. Most of the room's decorations, what few there actually were, looked like they came from the surface, actually, given the designers of the bunker likely hadn't put aside any space in the storage complexes for things like leather chairs, or gilded photo frames containing stills of a setting sun hanging above a deep blue sea, or marble busts of the colony's first mayor, or any of the small personal touches that transformed this room into a home.

'Are they still our allies?' Dale said, staring into the middle distance. 'Or was it a temporary thing, lasting only until they got what they wanted?'

'That's a complicated question, sir,' Scott said. 'They are, and they aren't. Many of them abandoned their beliefs and joined the Swords of Sanghelios, the largest single group on their homeworld, but many others kept clinging to them and still see us as heretical, or just hate us after decades of war and continue to fight. Others still have sided with factions of the Insurrection, hating the UNSC rather than humanity.

'Intelligence suggests that a number of these splinter groups are claiming to be continuations of the Covenant, but they lack the numbers and resources to make good on these claims.'

'And the other members?'

'Just as varied,' Scott said with a shrug. 'Reports have the Jackals flocking primarily towards Insurrection hot spots and planets to engage in black market dealings. Ships, weapons, technology; if they can get hold of it, they try to sell it.'

Dale scoffed. 'Vultures, even after the war's ended. The Grunts and Brutes?'

'Menial labour on whatever planets have them, mainly, and locked in a war with the Elites,' Scott said. 'Respectively.'

'Sounds bad,' Dale murmured softly. 'Always hell to pay when an empire collapses and there's no sense of unity. Everyone's in it for themselves, or looking to settle old scores. God knows we've learned that lesson plenty of times before now.'

He turned to look at the Spartan.

'There's another group, in the northern complexes, that you might want to talk to about being rescued,' he said. 'They've got some Elites with them, though I don't know if you're responsible for their safety. Are you?'

'It depends of them, sir,' Scott said. 'If they want to rescued and returned to Sanghelios, they can be.' He paused then added, 'Is this group not allied with you?'

'No,' Dale said as his face hardened. 'We had a falling out, so to speak, and they decided to move elsewhere. It was about the Elites, actually. They'd spent the past few years grappling with their beliefs and decided they must be wrong, so they defected from their own kind and came to us with an offer of peace.

'Some people wanted to accept, others didn't, so we sent those who did with the Elites to the northern complexes, what, three years ago? That was the last time we spoke to them.'

'Has there been no communication between the groups?' Scott asked.

'Not in the traditional sense, no,' Dale said. 'When I said we sent them northwards, I was making a bit of an understatement. Words of a harsh nature might have been exchanged, maybe some bullets, and small skirmishes occur when we see some of their patrols approaching out checkpoints.'

'You're at war with them,' the Spartan said.

'Maybe,' Dale said. 'We don't actively go looking for them, but we don't want them coming near us, so more like a cold war, I guess.'

'Is this going to cause issues when you rejoin humanity?' Scott said. 'The UNSC _is_ allied with a sizeable faction of Elites, now.'

'That's the million credit question, Spartan,' Dale said. 'I can't say I'm happy about the news after watching them turn my home into a frozen hellhole, same as most people in here, so reintegration with the rest of humanity might not go as smoothly as you were probably hoping. Some might even refuse to be rescued, or secede from the UNSC and declare war on it.

'They might even come after you, as suicidal as that might be, because you represent the people who betrayed them.'

'What are you going to do?'

'Me? I'm going to call a meeting of all the big shots and discuss this. Like I said, I'm not overly happy with the news but I'll put up with almost anything if it means leaving this bunker behind and seeing the open skies once more.'

Dale stood and walked over to Scott, placing his hands on the Spartan's shoulders as he added, 'Look, I don't want this whole thing to descend into violence any more than you, mainly because I've got a feeling you'll be able to wipe us all out without breaking a sweat, so when I hold the meeting I'll advocate we accept the UNSC's help in getting off Kohl and that once we're back on Earth, it's down to the individual as to what they do.

'Once we've agreed on what we'll do, I'll make a public address and explain the options. Until then, keep the fact humanity and the Elites are friendly to yourself, okay? I don't want people jumping the gun without thinking. If anyone asks about the other group, say that it's up to your superiors or that they'll be dealt with in the appropriate manner. Keep it vague and let them imagine what'll happen themselves. Okay?'

'Yes, sir,' Scott said.

'Good.' A smile eased its way onto Dale's softening features. 'We've gotten through two decades of hardship. Two more months should be nothing, right? Especially now we know rescue's actually coming.'

'Yes, sir,' Scott said again.

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 1500 Hours, February 11, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

Upon exiting Dale's office, Scott was met by Cline who offered to be his guide to the bunker and took him on a tour of it, showing the Spartan what they had done to keep themselves busy since the Covenant's attack and talking about what they had gone through to keep it so. The first eighteen months were the most harrowing as only a small fraction of the five thousand who sought refuge underground had any combat experience or weaponry, relying on their knowledge of the bunker and Dale's leadership to fight the Covenant troops to a standstill long enough to fortify the complex they were in now.

Then, with a solid base to operate from, the survivors had expanded and secured most of the south-west leg for supplies and room to grow, collapsing tunnel entrances where possible and erecting fortifications when they couldn't, settling into a routine that seemed almost normal. They awoke in the morning and went to work, earning credits to buy food with, before retiring at night and returning home to their families to relax and unwind. They just did it several dozen metres below ground in a massive warren of concrete tubes and bunkers.

He even put an end to the Spartan's confusion about why they dragged the bodies of fallen Covenant soldiers towards their home when they passed by several rooms advertising various forms of 'Bunker Chicken', what they disparagingly called Jackals who had replaced Grunts as the primary cannon fodder of the Elites. Cline and several restaurant owners offered him free samples to try but Scott turned them down, not finding the idea of eating Jackal very appealing despite seeing no end of people consuming it without complaint, including scores of kids.

Seeing them made him wonder how the children born and raised in the bunker thought of the world above. Might they view it with bewilderment, astounded at the fact that day and night were determined by the movements of celestial bodies rather than the dimming of lights according to some unseen clock, or would they see it as an alien and frightening place after knowing nothing but concrete tunnels and blocks?

A swarm of them had surrounded him when Cline passed by one of the schools, bombarding him with questions of life above ground and on other planets, touching the plating of his armour and giggling when they took their hands way, like they'd done something incredibly funny or outrageous. One adventurous child had the audacity to open the pouch attached to Scott's leg and begin rummaging around inside until his fingers closed around the tobacco tin, pulling it out for everyone to see by holding it aloft, and Scott had to restrain himself from snatching the tin back. It was the closest he came to a personal possession, bought long ago following his first ever deployment as a Spartan alongside Grey Team, and used to house a deck of cards that had often helped him and his team pass time between missions with endless games.

Instead, he just held his hand out to the boy and looked imploringly at him, the kid reluctantly handing it over once his teacher offered a stern glare, too, mumbling some manner of apology as he did. The teacher was quick to apologise as well, followed by an equally quick request for the Spartan to step into the classroom and give a brief talk on his experiences fighting the evil Covenant and defending humanity.

Scott had wanted to say no but Cline answered for him, half leading and half pulling him into the classroom to stand before thirty or so pale faced children that looked up at him with eager expressions. Tara had found the situation amusing, even if he didn't, judging by the stifled laughter drifting from his helmet's speakers and the sense of exuberance coming from the neural lace as the Spartan tried his best to explain to a room full of children aged between six and eight what he had done during his career, but found it difficult.

To start with, more than a few of his operations were classified and it was unlikely these school kids had the correct clearance to know about them. Secondly, and most importantly, he had no idea on how to speak with children. The Spartan-III program had taught him a great many things, most of which were related to combat, but dealing with civilians beyond escorting them to an EVAC point or rallying them into an ad hoc fighting forces was not a major skill Lieutenant Ambrose or SCPO Mendez had instilled within their trainees, doubly so for kids.

The resultant talk was rambling, halting, spoken completely in monotone, and completely awkward for Scott, even if his audience remained enthralled by it and gave a round of applause when he finished, their teacher letting them leave after that to spend the rest of the day playing with word reaching Scott an hour or so later the children were playing a newly created game called 'Spartans', which was essentially the old playground pass time of pretending to shoot each other with their hands but with the addition they all had Spartan tags, with fights breaking out over who could have B124 as theirs.

It was a little heart warming to hear they revered him so much after so short a time, but it was a fleeting feeling as presently, Scott and Tara were meeting with all the adults who had once lived up on the surface that wanted to know what had become of their families, close friends, or former squadmates during the intervening years. ONI had given Tara as comprehensive a list as they could muster in case of just an eventuality, their psychologists predicting the topic would come up at least once, with more than half the complex queuing up outside a small room set aside for Scott to use.

More often than not the news was bad, usually that the person they wanted to know about had died in a subsequent Covenant attack or became the victim of an Insurrection plot, or they had remarried and were now living happily with several children on one of the Inner Colonies that had escaped destruction, or had just vanished into thin air. But for every twenty or thirty instances of bad news there was some good to be found.

Like discovering their wife had never remarried and was actually pregnant during the evacuations, giving birth to a child who was named to honour their dead father, or had actually recorded an emotional message after the UNSC made contact with them and told of the slim possibility they might still be alive. Scott watched an endless stream of men and women break down into tears before him after learning what fates had befallen their loved ones, or fell into a mute daze at the overload of emotions welling up inside them.

But mostly, it was bad. Reports would come in later of a massive spike in the number of suicides by overdose, or vanishing into the tunnels without saying a word to anyone, or just turning in for the night and never waking up again. It was something psychologists called Glassing Syndrome, where survivors who had managed to survive through not only a glassing but living rough on an abandoned colony suddenly losing all will to live after learning the one thing they hoped to see again was no more, or had moved on.

Scott could only look on as the latest such person spoke with Tara, learning his wife and three children had successfully relocated to another colony, only for the eldest two children to be gunned down during a shootout between Marines and Insurrectionists over food shortages. The wife snapped mentally and had to be admitted to a psychiatric clinic for the remainder of her life whilst the youngest child joined the Insurrection out of revenge, dying a little over a year ago during another encounter with the UNSC, this time over stolen Jotun farming equipment. No civilians had gotten caught in the crossfire of that battle, thankfully, but neither had any Marines been listed as WIA or KIA, suggesting Spartan involvement of some kind, though this would have been of little comfort to the grieving father had Tara shared the information with him.

She beamed a copy of the report to Scott's HUD simply because the details were unusual and nothing more was said of them once the man left. Instead, Tara allowed her hologram to grow slightly dimmer as a sign she was feeling despondent at having to deliver so much bad news to people with such regularity, rubbing the back of her neck and sighing too.

'Poor guy,' she said. 'He's held out hope for so long and now he knows it was all for nothing. I don't like being the bearer of bad news.'

'At least he knows now,' Scott said. 'You've put his mind at rest.'

'But not in a nice way,' Tara said, looking off into the distance. 'According to my records, only fourteen percent of the people who went missing still have close family who are alive, but only twenty-three percent of those never remarried or moved on. And, they're going to learn humanity has sided with the Elites. How are they going to take that?'

'Unknown,' Scott said with a shake of his head. 'They fought with the group that sided with the Elites who defected from their comrades, so they might do the same again when the rescue fleet arrives. There are plenty of Insurrectionists groups to choose from that hate both the UNSC and the Covenant in equal measure.'

'What if they turn on us whilst we're waiting for the fleet?'

'Dale says he's going to advise against doing that,' Scott said. 'I'm just the messenger, after all.'

'But if they come for you anyway?'

Scott just gave her a flat look from behind his visor instead of speaking, prompting Tara to add, 'I know what you'd do if they did come for you. I want to know how far you'd take if they did.'

'As far as needed,' Scott said. 'If only a few people come for us, I'll deal with just a few people. If the whole bunker declares war on the UNSC, I'll deal with the whole bunker.'

'Long odds,' Tara said. 'Even for you. Current census data says over six-thousand souls live here, most of which are over the age of sixteen and reserve militia members. That's approximately a regiment's worth of troops.'

'I'd figure something out,' Scott said. 'There's always a solution to a problem.'

'Let's hope so,' Tara said before waving that statement away. 'Actually, let's hope you never have to find a solution to that problem.'

'Okay,' Scott said with a nod. 'Are you ready for the next person?'

'It's not like I have much choice, do I?'

'No.'

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 1930 Hours, February 11, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

'Citizens of Newport,' Dale said. 'As you may already know, we were visited today by members of the UNSC, Lieutenant Commander SPARTAN-B124 and his AI companion Tara, who bring with them news we've all been waiting twenty years for: humanity has won the war with the Covenant and they haven't forgotten about us. A fleet large enough to rescue all of us can be here within two months, to return us to the land of clear skies and fresh air and limitless space, to reunite us with the family we once thought lost.

'I know many of you have already spoken with the Commander and his AI and learned what befell your loved ones, and my heart goes out to all those who lost everything in whatever form it took. You have deepest sympathies. Losing someone is never easy.'

Dale paused and bowed his head in solemn remembrance, leading the crowd before and above him in a moment's silence of respect for the dead with many people holding hands as tears spilled down their cheeks from the overflow of emotions welling up within them. The soldier turned leader cast his gaze across everyone as though making eye contact with them all as a sign of his solidarity before continuing.

He was speaking to them from a podium set up in the corner of the bunker's very bottom level, standing at ramrod attention and wearing his faded dress uniform that was replete with campaign ribbons and medals from his time during the ORION Project and beyond. To his left were the members of the council, dressed in civilian clothes that had been the height of fashion twenty years ago, and on his right were the upper echelons of the military arm of the bunker, also in their dress uniforms. Scott was stood with them, between Swanson and Dale specifically, panning his gaze across the crowd.

They were all paying close attention to Dale as he spoke with the occasional glance towards the armoured Spartan, whispering excitedly amongst themselves that soon the UNSC was going to whisk them away from this frozen planet. That wasn't going to last. Dale had given Scott an advanced copy of the speech so he knew what was coming, what arguments he would use to try and keep the residents from turning on him, and when the mood would take a dramatic turn for the worse.

'The hope we would be someday rescued has kept us going through these dark times,' Dale continued. 'Without it, we wouldn't have been able to weather the continued assaults of the Covenant as they attempt to carry out the will of their so called gods, or endure the darkness and shadows of the miles of tunnels. Without the hope somebody would save us, this bunker would be nothing more than a tomb to the lost souls who sought refuge here when the monsters attacked.

'I know many of you were beginning to lose faith in that hope. I myself pondered from time to time if help would ever come, and whether or not my last memory of the surface world would be nothing but smoke and flames as the Covenant glassed our fair city. With the arrival of SPARTAN-B124, I know I don't need to wonder anymore.

'Within two months, we'll once more be able to see the horizon and look up to the stars and bask in the light of a real sun, and for that I am eternally grateful to the Commander for restoring my faith, and I hope you all will join me in extending a heartfelt thanks to him for all he has done for us.'

He turned to Scott and said as much, prompting the crowd to erupt into wild cheers and joyful whistles and rapturous applause that sounded absolutely deafening even with his helmet cancelling out most of it, and Scott gave an awkward thanks of his own, uncomfortable with the attention being reaped upon him and knowing what came next in the speech.

'But I also have bad news to deliver today,' Dale said, silencing the crowd with a few waves of his hand. 'Our victory against the Covenant was not solely the result of human cunning and ingenuity, or our refusal to go quietly into the night. During our meeting, the Commander told me that in the final few months of the conflict the UNSC formed a temporary truce with the Elites against the wider Covenant, and that this in turn has blossomed into full blown diplomatic relations with the single largest faction on their home planet.'

A dead silence fell over the crowd at that. All that could be heard was the hum of the air system and the buzzing of the lights, and then the subtle rustling of fabric as they turned as one to face Scott with varying expressions on their faces. Confusion and bewilderment were some, but most verged on scathing looks of anger, fury, betrayal, if not outright hostility at their supposed saviour.

'When I first heard this news, I myself felt what many of you now feel. How could the UNSC overlook nearly thirty years of war, hundreds of planets lost and billions killed? Such sins should not be forgiven so easily if at all, and had the Commander not shown me images of Marines and ODSTs, even my fellow Spartans, fighting alongside the Elites I would not have believed him. I would have sooner thought this bunker was the gateway to a parallel universe and we had all passed over into it.

'The awful truth is; we haven't. Humanity aligned itself with the very species that once led the campaigns of genocide against us and now considers them friends. It is a bitter pill to swallow. It is a great betrayal. But it is not the Commander's fault. He is but the messenger, not the one who made the decision to ally with those alien brutes. I ask you; _plead_ with you, to direct your anger towards those who did.

'To those who might still wish to attack the Commander, I feel I should remind you he is still a Spartan, one far deadlier than I am and within his right to defend himself. To what extent is up to him, but I hope that he understands not all who might attack him speak for the rest of us.'

Dale turned to Scott who gave him a single nod of agreement before returning to the crowd as it cast him scathing glances every now and then, the total number of people doing so gradually diminishing as Dale's words reached them.

'In the coming weeks until the rescue fleet arrives, the council and I shall discuss what our next moves might be upon returning to civilisation. We cannot accept this new alliance with the Elites after all they have done to us, but neither can we openly engage the UNSC in conflict. We are not Insurrectionists, and neither can we repay the people who rescued us by taking up arms against them. Those who do feel like pursuing this route, I ask that you keep such thoughts to yourself until after we return to Earth.

'The Commander is still a loyal member of the UNSC and will no doubt deal with threats against it with lethal efficiency.'

Eyes shifted towards the Spartan who looked back with a blank faced stare, inching one hand towards the grip of his pistol as though daring anyone to speak up and test his resolve. None did, apparently believing all Dale had to say on the matter but already some within the crowd were muttering amongst themselves, disgruntled or disgusted expressions on their faces.

'It pains me to end what was supposed to be an uplifting and inspiring speech on such a miserable note but please, remember; help _is_ coming. We have endured over twenty years of hardship with nothing but belief to sustain us. All we have left is two months knowing help is on the way.

'Because of the news we received today, all citizens barring those on basic guard duty and those within critical sectors are permitted to take the next two days off to adjust and to begin preparations to leave.

'Godspeed, citizens. We're almost through this.'

A few within the crowd muttered responses back to Dale as others started drifting away, the speech over, with the members of the council standing as one to join the crowd in returning to their homes or offices. The military members waited a few moments longer then did the same, Swanson being the sole exception who remained behind with Scott and Dale, the latter appearing the deflate as he stepped away from the pulpit to look at the two UNSCDF members with a weary gaze.

'How many do you think will turn against the UNSC?' he asked.

'Unknown,' Scott said.

'There's going to be some,' Swanson said. 'It's a massive betrayal, sir, allying with the Elites. After all they did.'

Dale nodded with no small amount of lethargy as he covered his face with both hands, as though unwilling to even look at the situation placed before him. Even Scott could see the conflict in his eyes at what to do about the UNSC, torn between his loyalty to the organisation that had tried its absolute best to defend humanity and her colonies, and his hatred of the Elites who had been the ones to lead the attacks against those colonies. The best solution was to take up residence on a remote colony that refused to entertain any former member of the Covenant, regardless of their regret at the atrocities they had helped support.

A number of colonies were already making noises about implementing such policies, baulking only on how to enforce such a rule whilst remaining loyal to the UNSC which was officially entertaining diplomatic relations with any of their former foes willing to reciprocate.

'What will you do if they openly declare war on the UNSC?' Dale asked the Spartan.

'That depends on them,' Scott said. 'Open aggression against myself will be met with equal force, whilst if they simply state their intent without acting on it I'll simply log their identity for the fleet to deal with. Likely imprisonment, or close scrutiny upon reaching Earth.'

'I suspected as much,' Dale said. 'When will you head out to the other group?'

'As soon as,' Scott said. 'Tonight, possibly.'

'No,' Dale said, waving him off and placing a hand on Scott's shoulder. 'No, stay the night. We need to extend some level of hospitality towards you, even if some within the bunker might now wish you harm. We'll set up one of the rooms for you.'

'I wouldn't want to impose, sir,' Scott said. 'Or cause issues should people come for me during the night.'

'You wouldn't be imposing,' Dale said. 'I insist. And don't worry about people coming after you. They're well aware of what Spartans can do, so I doubt anyone will try anything this close to being rescued. If somebody does, well, I guess that's natural selection at work.'

He offered a grim, humourless smile that Scott failed to return, before motioning for Swanson to come closer and escort him to one of the few empty rooms still filling the bunker. Along the way they passed by numerous people who fell silent upon seeing the armoured supersoldier and gave him looks of contempt, or sadness at the news he had conveyed, or outright hatred and hostility as they eyed him up and down, likely trying to determine his weakness and flaws that they could exploit.

There were enough to give Scott cause for concern that even after locking the door of his temporary abode, and having Tara worm her way into the bunker's surveillance systems to watch for threats, he slept lightly with both guns within easy reach.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 0730 Hours, February 12, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

There was nobody brave or foolish enough to take on a Spartan, even one that was sleeping, and Scott woke up the next morning no more worse for wear than when he walked in, quickly gathering his equipment up and heading out to meet with Dale one last time before he left for the next enclave of human survivors to tell them the good news, and offer the same help to the Elites in their midst. There was also the question of figuring out just who had sent the encoded signal, and to whom it was they were sending it.

Scott would have asked Dale or even Swanson earlier but the events of the previous day had kept him too occupied to speak with them, and when he finally got a chance to the mood had changed considerably once the revelation of humanity's alliance with the Elites came to light. He actually doubted Dale or someone affiliated with him was responsible for sending the message given it was broadcasting on Covenant frequencies as well, but that didn't rule out the possibility of it being some small cell operating independently of the bunker towards some unknown goal.

He shrugged mentally and stepped out of his loaned apartment to see what passed for an early morning in the bunker. It was sparsely populated with people, guards mostly judging by the armour and weapons they carried and the slow, meandering routes they were taking, and dimly lit by soft orange lights designed to emulate a sunrise as a way of gently waking people up for another day of surviving underground. Already he could hear a subdued hubbub of people waking up and performing whatever morning rituals they had echoing across the concrete walls.

One or two residents were early risers and Scott could see them walking off to a destination only they knew, their gazes diverting on occasion to his hulking figure as he stood by the balcony looking out. Some still sported their hateful looks but most wore resigned expressions at having accepted the bad news Scott had brought with him and that he had no part in deciding them.

He set off after a moment of watching them, following the rudimentary signs to Dale's office and knocking three times once he arrived at the door. It opened a minute later to reveal the ORION Project veteran dressed in his take on civilian attire of a plain white T-shirt and faded black combat trousers.

Dale craned his neck upwards to meet Scott's gaze, his bones popping audibly in the process, and said, 'Ah, Commander. You're awake. I was just about to send a runner to fetch you. Please, come in.'

He stepped to one side and gestured for Scott to join him, the Spartan complying and ducking under the doorway to enter Dale's quarters once again. It hadn't changed much since yesterday barring the appearance of a plain metal table and several seats, one bearing hasty reinforcements to support an increased amount of weight.

'I was hoping we could have a meal together before you left,' Dale said as he moved to stand beside Scott. 'End your visit here on something of a high note.'

'I wouldn't want to intrude, sir,' Scott said.

'Nonsense,' Dale said, placing a hand on his back in something of a vain attempt to usher him along. 'Despite the... _unfortunate_ news you brought, Commander, you've given the people here hope once more, and they are thankful for it. Even if they don't show it.'

Scott hesitated as he looked down at the table and its numerous settings, enough to contain the higher-ups of the bunker presumably, only to relent and allowed Dale to guide him to the reinforced seat positioned in the middle of the table. It would have been rude to decline his offer, and given the delicate atmosphere within the bunker it might have been ruinous to do so. The people here were already beginning to have doubts about the UNSC coming to rescue them following his revelation about the Elites yesterday, Scott was sure of that, so he needed to avoid giving them any more fodder for any growing rebellions that might be forming.

He eased himself down into the chair and removed his helmet, stowing it beneath the seat as Dale assumed his position at the head of the table which, as though rehearsed beforehand, was followed by the door into his apartment opening to allow around a dozen or so individuals entry, Swanson amongst them, who took their places around the table with minimal fuss or arguing over who was going to sit where. Perhaps the seating arrangements had gotten sorted the night before so as to avoid causing a scene before the bunker's saviour, or maybe there was some unwritten hierarchy Scott didn't know about.

When everyone was sat, he found himself sitting between the bunker's chief engineer and the food manager, and across from the head of the education department. All three were old enough to have memories of the world above but young enough that the majority of their lives had been spent underground, with the pale skin typical of bunker residents but with a vague hint of an old tan. The eldest was the chief engineer, Maria, who was a little over thirty-five years of age whilst the youngest was Kane, the food manager, who was only twenty-eight. Elaine, the principal or dean of the schools, sat right in the middle of them.

'I'm something of a cross between a warehouse manager and a farmer, really,' Kane said. 'Our storage complexes only held enough food to keep us going for ten years all told, plus what we could scavenge from the others whilst the trams were still viable transport options, so we had to learn about agriculture and building underground greenhouses pretty quickly. I'd say about thirty to forty percent of the food we're eating is home grown now and we're aiming to increase that all the way to a hundred.

'Well, I guess that _was_ the aim considering you're here now, and help is coming, but ultimately we wanted to be totally self sufficient.'

'Too bad we didn't have any livestock,' Maria said as she reached for a cup of coffee. 'I wouldn't have minded living here for the rest of my life if we had a steady supply of fresh meat and milk to have. Eating the same few vegetables and fruits for the remainder of my life did not sound appealing.'

'You've never met a vegetarian, then,' Elaine said. 'They can live their whole lives on nothing but stuff that grows in the ground.'

'Yeah, but they've got a wider variety to choose from,' Maria said. 'We've got maybe ten different types down here with us, despite Kane's attempts at cross pollination.'

'Plant breeding,' Kane corrected. 'And what we're attempting to do is increase the yields of our plants so that we have more food. Creating new types of plants with new flavours and textures requires both specialised equipment and people with degrees in the fields of biology and genetics, things we are sorely lacking.'

'Don't blame me for that one,' Elaine said. 'I'm only able to work with what I've got, the same as you.'

'No, no, I'm not saying you're to blame,' Kane said, holding a hand up by way of apology. 'I'm just saying, what Maria is suggesting we do is beyond us at the moment. Hell, the fact we've managed to accomplish what we have done is nothing short of a miracle considering the fact none of us had much of an agricultural background when we set out. It's taken a lot of trial and error, plus what we could glean from the bunker's records, to get this far.'

He gestured at the meal they were eating and all the natural ingredients it contained, mainly jams made from fruits and berries, and potatoes made into several different dishes. Whatever meat on the plate was, as Maria had pointed out, not fresh and came from the stored foodstuffs the residents of Newport had stashed away inside their bunker as part of their disaster response plan. Time had not been kind to the meat despite advances in food storage and preservation, but it was still edible and Scott subscribed to the military adage of eating when he could, because the next chance he got might not be for a long while.

As it happened, his plate was the biggest in terms of both area and contents, being twice as big as everyone else's and piled twice as high with food, and the Spartan was methodically working his way through it all between answering questions or asking them out of politeness. Despite the relaxed atmosphere of the room, he couldn't help but feel everybody was putting the act on in an effort to disguise the fact they were still conflicted about the UNSC-Elite alliance. Their smiles seemed just a little too forced, and they seemed to be purposefully avoiding talking about it with him.

'How are you finding it all, Commander?' Kane asked. 'Everything to your liking?'

'Yes,' Scott said. 'It's fine.'

'Just fine?' Kane said.

'Yes,' Scott said again. 'Why?'

'Well, I was just wondering what you thought of the food. The fresh stuff, I mean. It came from my farms, after all, and I'm curious about how it stacks up against other things you've eaten.'

'Oh,' the Spartan said before offering a shrug. 'I'm not really one for taking note of that sort of stuff. Once you've spent seven years living off MREs and survival rations, you tend to stop taking note of flavour. So long as the meal is filling enough to keep me combat ready another few hours or days, it's done the job I need it to do.'

'That sounds like a terrible way to live,' Kane said. 'What's the point of anything if you don't stop to enjoy the little things in life?'

'When you're a Spartan, simply having a chance to eat a meal is luxury enough,' Scott said. 'There have been numerous occasions where I've gone for three days without a proper meal, just water and stims, because of a relentless Covenant attack. You start to enjoy different things based on what your life entails.'

Kane opened his mouth to speak but elected against it, giving a half-hearted shrug and resigned sigh instead as Elaine said, 'Besides, you just grew them, Kane. The people who should be asking if the Commander enjoyed their meal are the cooks who actually prepared it. They're the real stars of the show.'

The food manager just pouted at that and looked away, picking away at his meal with mild annoyance as Elaine tried her best to hide a faint smile behind her cup of coffee. She flashed a wink at Scott who gave her a blank stare back, unsure of what it meant. If the head of the bunker's education was put off by his lack of a response she didn't show it, putting her cup back down as she continued to speak.

'Did they teach you many cooking skills as part of your training, Commander?' Elaine asked.

'Not overly,' Scott said with a shake of his head. 'I know the basics of food preparation and cooking, but only insofar as it applies to survival skills and preparing MREs. There was never any intention for Spartans to become culinary specialists, or any other rating not tied directly to fighting. We're combat infantry through and through.'

'I see,' Elaine said. 'Are there any non-combat ratings you might like to try your hand at?'

'No,' Scott said after a moment to think. 'The majority of the remaining ratings are mainly to do with running a ship or forming part of the support staff, and I'm too used to being on the frontlines to consider switching.'

'And how long has that been?'

'Since 2545,' Scott said. 'Not including time spent in cryo.'

'Eight whole years?' Maria said with an awed whisper. 'Wow. And you fought the Covenant that whole time?'

Scott shook his head. 'No. We still had to contend with Insurrectionists during the war. I led my team against numerous cells on a dozen or so different planets, Reach included.'

Kane's eyes widened in surprise at that as he said, 'They didn't side with the UNSC when the Covenant showed up?'

'No,' Scott said. 'Well, some did. Others clung to their beliefs even as the Outer Colonies were glassed and the Covenant moved in towards Earth. I've heard old rumours that some cells attempted to negotiate with the Covenant, offering the location of Earth or other vital colonies, in exchange for being left alone.'

'You can't be serious,' Maria said. 'They thought they could negotiate with them?'

The Spartan nodded and said, 'This was during the opening months and years of the war. People thought the Covenant were just fighting the UNSC, not that they were after humanity as a whole, so they attempted to form some kind of alliance with them.'

'I'm guessing it didn't end well,' Maria said.

'No,' Scott said. 'It didn't.'

'How about today?' Elaine asked. 'Are they still trying to form partnerships with the Covenant? Or, what remains anyway.'

'Some are,' Scott said with a half shrug. 'Venezia apparently has a moderate population of former Covenant members living and working alongside active Insurrectionists. They trade weapons and equipment, including ships, which gets distributed to their allies across the colonies.'

'So the Insurrection is going to heat up again,' Kane said.

'Yes,' Scott said. 'By some accounts, it's already flared up, only now we might see former Covenant members fighting alongside them, rather than against them.'

'Is that going to make your job any more difficult than it was?'

Scott paused and thought about that one for a moment, of Insurrectionists equipped with plasma weaponry and piloting ships protected by energy shielding, and said, 'In the long term, no. Despite the massive amount of Covenant equipment going up for grabs, the logistical support base needed to maintain and replace it has gone. The majority of their heavier support weapons and ground vehicles were manufactured on High Charity, their mobile capital, and that was reported destroyed back in November.

'Even if they do somehow acquire manufacturing abilities, their numbers will be too low to make any meaningful difference in battle and sooner or later, ONI will find their source and destroy it.'

'Yeah,' Kane said. 'But Innies armed with plasma rifles. Doesn't that seem a little daunting?'

'Not overly,' Scott said. 'I've fought a few Innies equipped with Covenant weapons before, and they tended to act more aggressively and recklessly than their comrades armed with traditional weapons because they think they're superior to ballistic weapons.'

'Aren't they?' Elaine said.

'No,' Scott replied with a shake of his head. 'Not in my opinion, at least. About the only advantage they have over human weapons is damage dealt on a shot per shot basis, and even that can be offset by careful aiming. They don't have integrated sights or ammo counters, they can only manage a few seconds of continuous fire before overheating, and the bolts become cooler and slower the further they travel before dissipating entirely after maybe two-hundred metres.

'I think the only reason the Covenant were able to come this close to winning the war was because their ships were superior to ours, and could easily win the space battles which were, ultimately, the primary deciding factor in a colony's fate. There no end of times where we'd managed to retake the ground, only for command to pull us out because the skies belonged to the Covenant.'

'Just like here,' Maria said quietly.

'Yes.'

'But that's all going to change now,' Kane said. 'I mean, if they try again we'll be able to fight them off more successfully. Right?'

'I believe so,' Scott said with a nod. 'We have both large caches of Covenant equipment and the time necessary to properly reverse engineer it for our own purposes. Some of the new ship designs being built have energy shields as standard, including the Marathon replacements. Any further space battles should be less uneven now.'

'Should?' Elaine said.

'The enemy has the capacity to learn and improve, too, though by some accounts they lack the technological capacity to do so, and will remain like that for the foreseeable future.'

There were smiles all around when he said that, some faint and some broader, and it took a moment for Scott to realise the rest of the table had stopped their own conversations to listen to him speak on the Covenant's capabilities, past and present, and apparently wholeheartedly agreed with him. He stared at them all in turn for a brief moment then went back to his food as everyone resumed speaking, once more dodging the sensitive subjects with their forced smiles back in place.

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 0901 Hours, February 12, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

Stepping back into the dark tunnels was more depressing than it should have been after spending the previous day in the bunker, the lack of life and light even more apparent than it already was, but Scott squelched that feeling as he made his way over the numerous cinderblock barricades the survivors had erected in the tunnel. They had given him a mixed send off, some cheering and waving enthusiastically whist others had put in the minimum effort required. Others still had offered just blank faces as the Spartan departed for the tunnels.

He cast a glance back at them, offering a short wave of farewell and thanks, and scanned the assorted faces with concern. His news had to have caused some kind of division within the bunker's residents over whether they should accept the UNSC's aid, or even its rule after aligning with the Elites, which could in turn lead to revolts amongst the population over what they really should be doing. Might any malcontents try to seize power or strike out on their own to form some new, localised cell of the Insurrection?

'Are you able to access their cameras remotely?' Scott asked Tara.

'No,' she said. 'They've modified the system so that it's local access only. We have to be within range of their network for me to gain access. Why?'

'I'd like to know if things take a turn for the worst there,' he said. 'We gave them some pretty upsetting news and I'm concerned about what kind of repercussions it might lead to, and in turn having some sort of early warning system in place wouldn't be a bad thing.'

'Repercussions like what?'

'The formation of groups with hostile intents towards us and the UNSC, either in the form of an Insurrection affiliated group coming into being or the council being usurped and replaced with a party that rallies the bunker against Earth for their crimes of allying with the Elites. If enough of them swing around to that way of thinking, and if they have enough armaments, they could feel confident enough to try and eliminate us.'

'To what end, though?' Tara said. 'If they do attack us, they'd be treated as enemies by the UNSC and subject to imprisonment in a much smaller box than this bunker. Even if they do best us somehow, I can always leave a message in the bunker's systems that plays only when it detects Marine IFFs telling them about what happened.'

'People don't always think and act rationally when they're emotional,' Scott said. 'Especially when they're angry. Long term planning tends to vanish once their blood is up.'

'Still,' Tara said. 'It _is_ something of a stretch to think the bunker's residents will come after you with hostile intentions, Commander.'

'Hope for the best, plan for the worst,' Scott said. 'That's what's kept me alive so far.'

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 1548 Hours, February 12, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

A mixture of jammed doors and partially collapsed tunnels made what was supposed to be an easy trek into an exercise of doubling back and crawling through tight, confined spaces, at times through gaps so narrow Scott had to deactivate his shields just to make himself thin enough, and even then he felt the rough concrete scraping against his bare armour. If there was ever a time for hostile forces to attack him it would have been then, stuck between two immoveable objects and with his assault rifle on one side only. Massed fire and grenades would have finished him off quickly enough.

The corridor leading up to the northernmost residential complex was devoid of the signs of battle, old or recent, and there were no cinderblock barriers or partially shut doors to impede the Spartan's progress, just a tunnel approximately one mile in length that ran straight and true, which struck Scott as odd considering the people here had just as much of a reason to fortify their new home as those under Dale had, perhaps more so considering the Covenant remnants would see them as heretics worthy of nothing more than total eradication.

But there was nothing, only an empty corridor that looked just as abandoned as the rest of the bunker. Here and there were faded marks in the concrete from something that had gotten dragged along, a crate maybe filled with supplies or a heavy piece of equipment, but the thick layer of dust sitting atop it suggested this had happened a long time ago.

'Not quite as prepared here, are they?' Tara said, mirroring the Spartan's own thoughts.

'No,' he said. 'Not at all.'

'Any idea why?'

'A few,' Scott said. 'Perhaps the Covenant remnants got to them before they could properly establish themselves, and are now inhabiting this location as well as the reactor, or Dale's group used up everything during their reinforcement of their complexes, leaving this group nothing to use.'

'Possibly,' Tara said. 'Though they should have found at least _something_ to fortify their home. This is just asking for trouble.'

'Maybe,' Scott said as he kept walking.

He slowed his pace when he got to within the last few hundred metres of the tram station sitting atop the complex, debating on whether or not he should activate his helmet's torches to give whatever sentries were present some warning he was here. On the one hand, these people were supposedly still loyal to the UNSC if they were anything like those in Dale's bunker so it was unlikely they'd open fire on him, but at the same time it was likely they were the ones responsible for transmitting the coded message that had brought him here in the first place.

Though it was being sent on human frequencies, they weren't official UNSC channels and protected by an encryption scheme unfamiliar to them, suggesting it might possibly be Insurrectionist related and they saw Spartans as Earth's thugs who were sent to enforce their will on the galaxy. If that were the case, they'd open fire on him without a moment's hesitation and prepare themselves for an invasion by Marines. Turning his lights on would be tantamount to painting a giant bullseye on himself and inviting all manner of hostile fire.

As it happened, there didn't seem to be any sentries posted on the entrance when Scott closed to within one hundred metres, suggesting the people here had gotten themselves wiped out, or moved to a new location, but rather than feel at ease Scott found himself on edge. That little voice in the back his mind was whispering about a potential threat and he shouldered his rifle in response, panning it across the space in front of him with swift movements, one eye on his motion tracker.

He entered the tram station at a crawl, assault rifle panning from left to right, but saw nothing beyond darkness and dust and tram cars that hadn't moved in years. There wasn't anything to hear either, just silence and his own controlled breathing as he crabbed sideways out of the tunnel, keeping something solid at his back to prevent anything from sneaking up on him, assuming there actually was something here.

There must have been as, without warning, a stream of plasma appeared from nowhere and headed straight for the Spartan who ducked and dodged away on reflex, catching only a smattering of rounds that made his shields glow from the impact. He recovered and aimed his rifle in the direction the plasma came from, seeing a faint shimmering in the air atop one of the trams typical of an Elite using active camouflage.

Rather than wait for a second volley to come his way, Scott centred his rifle on the cloaked Elite and opened fire with a measured burst of his own.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 1602 Hours, February 12, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

The rounds flew straight and true from the Spartan's rifle, impacting the Elite square in the chest and disrupting the active camouflage systems to reveal the alien warrior in all its glory, and another burst downed its shields which was puzzling for Scott as, based on the armour the Elite wore, it should have been able to handle more rounds that what he had fired, but then he recalled the suit was twenty years old by this point and likely in need of a major overhaul if not outright scrapping. Even the MJOLNIR armour needed maintenance on a regular basis despite the inbuilt ruggedness.

He fired again and the Elite howled in pain as a trio of rounds punched through the protective garb surrounding its shoulder and fell backwards off the tram car, Scott running and jumping after it without a second's hesitation. The Elite had opened fire on him first and that made it hostile towards him, and he needed to silence it before it could raise an alarm towards whatever else might call this section of the bunker home.

His feet made dull thumps as they came down onto the top of the tram car and he swept his rifle across the ground below him, looking for the Elite, but either the AvCam systems were back in action or it had rolled away in the few seconds it had taken him to leap into position. Then, another stream of plasma came flying out of the darkness and Scott rolled away on reflex, rifle blasting away in the rough direction of the source and he was rewarded with more pained howling from the Elite. Whilst the AvCam was back in action, apparently this didn't extend to the shielding system as it _should_ have recharged by now to provide some protection against his rifle fire.

Pressing his supposed advantage, Scott raced towards the source of the noise with his rifle up and ready to fire when the Elite blindsided him, slamming them both into the side of a tram with enough force to buckle metal and shatter glass, and Scott's shields flared in response to the impact. Mildly annoyed that the Elite had gotten the drop on him, he returned the favour by delivering a powerful headbutt that whipped the Elite's head backwards and stunned it, but it still managed to take hold of his assault rifle and the pair began struggling over it.

Up close, Scott saw the Elite was older than most he had encountered before with numerous scars and nicks covering what little exposed flesh there was, and the armour it wore had even more dents and scratches indicative of a hard life lived. Fresh purple blood was flowing freely from the wound Scott had inflicted but the alien warrior paid it little to no mind, the screaming nerve endings apparently subsumed by whatever the Elite equivalent to adrenaline was or the thrill of excitement that came from battling a deadly foe.

But then it stopped.

The Elite, focused mainly on the assault rifle, quickly glanced upwards to see how its opponent was doing before returning to the weapon, only to perform what Scott could only describe as the Elite equivalent of a double take and slack jawed expression as it looked him straight in the eye with bewilderment and three of its four mandibles hanging loose. One, it seemed, had gotten removed at some point long ago to leave a nub of scarred flesh. The Elite blinked several times and said, 'Spartan?'

Scott's response was to deliver another headbutt that knocked the Elite free from his rifle and sprawling onto the ground where it made no attempt to get back up and resume the fight. Instead it threw both hands up in the human mode of surrender and said, 'I yield, Spartan. I yield!'

Confusion was the only thing keeping Scott from opening fire right there and then with the Elite dead to rights before his weapon, head cocked to the side. No Elite would ever admit defeat or surrender to an opponent, regardless of who or what they were, _especially_ when that opponent was a Spartan supersoldier. Something was off here.

'Say again,' Scott said, rifle aimed at the Elite's head.

'I yield to you, Spartan,' the Elite said. 'I have no quarrel with you.'

'Then why open fire on me?'

'I mistook you for an enemy,' the Elite said. 'One of the Elites who still believes in the Great Journey, come to examine our defences ahead of an assault.'

'I look like an Elite to you?' Scott said.

'Apologies, Spartan. My sight is not what it used to be, and the low light optics I carry are unreliable and intermittent. All I saw was a hulking figure in armour entering the station, armed with a weapon, looking for threats. Had my equipment been working fully, I would not have fired.'

'Okay,' Scott said.

He didn't take his assault rifle off the Elite though, unsure of whether he should actually believe what the Elite was telling him. It sounded plausible enough, both the equipment failure and poor sight, but he had still opened fire on him without provocation beyond suspecting him of being an enemy infiltrator. This could all be part of some elaborate ruse to get him to lower his guard, and to then have as yet unseen compatriots open fire on him and claim victory.

The Elite stared pointedly at the muzzle of the rifle as though questioning the Spartan on whether it was really necessary, but Scott returned it with a look of his own that signalled he still wasn't entirely sold on the story. To which, the Elite nodded in understanding.

'Were our places reversed, I would feel the same,' it said. 'But really, Spartan, I am no longer your enemy. I and several of my brothers have aligned myself with a sizeable faction of humans. We seek peace between our two worlds.'

'Okay,' Scott said again. 'So who's the leader of the other group of humans? The ones who live in the western section.'

'Dale, if I remember correctly,' the Elite said. 'Forgive me if I cannot tell you more than that but our interactions were brief. His Marine officer was adamant to keep him separated from myself and the others as much as possible. A trust issue, I assumed.'

'What was their name?'

The Elite clacked his mandibles together in thought then said, 'Swanson, I believe.'

'It is,' Scott said.

He paused then relented, swinging the muzzle of his rifle away from the Elite and relaxed his posture, which the Elite took as a sign he was going to live just a little bit longer and pushed himself into a sitting position, one hand going to gingerly hold the wound Scott had inflicted.

'I didn't realise my equipment was as run down as this,' it said. 'Before it would have shrugged off such an attack with ease.'

'You have been down here for twenty years,' Scott said. 'Nothing lasts.'

'Agreed,' the Elite said. 'Now, might I be permitted to contact the others in this bunker? My silence will only add to their worries.'

'Of course,' Scott said but, inwardly, his wariness returned and he gripped his assault rifle tighter.

The Elite brought out an old Marine radio and spoke into it with a clipped rundown of the events that had taken place, and just what had shown up, and the person on the other end simply acknowledged the report after a short pause. Then, there was a click and a hum as the station lights flicked on to bathe the room in soft white glow and Scott looked around on reflex for anything that might be coming for him but there was nothing, so he forced himself to relax slightly.

He and the Elite both turned their heads towards a nearby stairwell when they heard the doors there opening, revealing a dozen people dressed in Marine armour and carrying assault rifles who poured out and approached the duo cautiously though not because of the alien, but Scott. Half of them kept raising their rifles as if getting ready to fire before lowering them again, and the other half could only look on with shocked wonder.

Only two were broadcasting IFF tags which meant the others were part of what passed for a local militia. One stepped forward and made for the Elite, plucking a bandage from a pocket and went to tend to the wound, Scott stepping back to give the medic room to work without taking his eyes off the rest of the squad. He couldn't work out if they were angry at him for wounding the Elite, or something else. Certainly there were no joyous expressions like the ones the soldiers under Swanson had given upon seeing him emerge from the tunnels.

Tense minutes passed by until the sound of more footsteps could be heard and a woman, flanked by two more guards that lacked Marine IFF tags, arrived in the station. She took one look at Scott and said, 'You'd better follow me, Spartan. There's plenty of things to talk about.'

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 1639 Hours, February 12, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

The woman's name was Melissa and she was the de facto leader of this section, being the only one with both the will and desire to try and oversee the two factions that called this piece of drab concrete walls home. She led Scott to her personal quarters, like Dale had, but unlike the ORION Project veteran's home this was even less decorated than before with maybe one or two pictures sitting atop a desk, and both were generic views of a sunset over an ocean.

Also present was another man who looked to be in his late forties, early fifties, and looked similar enough to Melissa that he was either her father or uncle, and he gave Scott a wary look upon seeing the Spartan but that was as far as it went.

Once the door was shut, Melissa began.

'You're here because of the transmission,' she said, answering the question of just who had sent it. 'Aren't you?'

'Yes,' Scott said.

'What happened to the man who sent it?'

'He died,' Scott said. 'Single gunshot to the abdomen. I found him lying over the terminal he used to send the signal with.'

'He was shot?' the man said.

'Yes,' Scott said. 'I can show you my mission logs if you want to check for yourself.'

'No,' Melissa said, waving him away. 'No, I think we'll take your word for it. But he got the message out, though, right?'

'On both human _and_ Covenant frequencies,' Scott said. ' _And_ with an encryption scheme unfamiliar to the UNSC. That was what piqued the UNSC's interest the most, more than the fact a colony long thought to be dead was broadcasting again.'

He looked between the two people stood before him, emphatically, and they could only look between themselves with uneasy expressions on their faces. Eventually, Melissa broke the silence with, 'Okay. Yeah, that might need some explaining.'

'Please,' Scott said.

'Okay,' Melissa said again. 'We're not Insurrectionists. I want to make that very clear. Yes, there's probably some anti-Earth sentiments amongst us but what do you expect? We're an Outer Colony. But there's no deep seated hatred for Earth or the UNSC. I mean, how can we feel anything like that after it was the _UNSC_ that came and tried to save us? There weren't any Innie ships helping evacuate colonists or engaging the Covenant, just yours.

'So there's no plan to align ourselves with the Insurrection or anything.'

'But?' Scott said.

'But, we didn't feel like we could trust the UNSC to not do anything bad to the Elites,' Melissa said. 'You have to understand that after living with them for as long as we had, learning more about each other, we don't see them as just aliens anymore. They're our friends at this point, our family. We couldn't stomach the thought of the UNSC subjecting them to experimentation or worse if or when they came back.

'So when we started discussing about sending an SOS with the tether's communication array, there was a lot of questioning about who we should be trying to reach. We couldn't contact the UNSC because we were afraid of what would happen to the Elites, but neither could we call out to the Covenant because they'd kill us all for being heretics and traitors.

'So we settled on a compromise.'

'We did send a message to the Innies,' the man accompanying Melissa said, shifting on his feet with unease. 'Kind of.'

Scott shifted his gaze to bore into the man, making him squirm even more, and said, 'Kind of how?'

'W-Well,' the man said. 'Before the Covenant attacked, my brother used to run with one of these pro-independence groups that were a step or two away from being full blown Innies, you know? They were always talking about how righteous their cause was, fighting for freedom and all that, and floating the idea around of forming their own group to try and get that, here, on Kohl.

'They never got any further than talking about it, mind, and I-I never subscribed to it, Spartan. I got no quarrel with the UNSC, no sir, but if I know my brother half as well as I do, and if he survived the attack and got away, I reckon he'd see the loss of Newport as solely the UNSC's fault and throw his lot in with the Innies to get his revenge.

'So I figured if I could get a message to him, he might be able to bring a ship to rescue us all and take us somewhere warm, and underneath a wide open sky filled with stars.'

'And the presence of Covenant members?' Scott said. 'Former or otherwise, who were also responsible for actually destroying Newport?'

'He was actually more open minded about them than most others,' the man said. 'He felt that out of the millions of aliens in the Covenant, there had to be someone, or a group of them, who didn't have the same faith as the rest and could be negotiated with, maybe even convinced to defect and help us in some way. Either to fight off the rest of the Covies or just help defend Kohl, I never really knew.

'Contacting him was something of a long shot, I know, but hope springs eternal.'

'And what of the Covenant frequencies?' Scott said.

'That was from some of our Elite members,' Melissa said. 'They've got family members with slipspace capable transports that could be, hopefully, swung around to abandoning the Covenant. An even longer shot, but we're desperate to get off this ice ball.'

Scott nodded. 'A _very_ long shot.' He turned to the man. 'Your brother, what was his name?'

'Carlson Anders,' the man said. 'Why?'

'ONI predicted that the single most important question people would have after whether or not the war is over or not is what happened to their family members,' Scott said. 'So they gave me a list with the last known status of everyone that they could discover.'

'Oh,' Melissa said. 'That's thoughtful.'

A pause, then, 'Have we won the war?'

'Yes,' Scott said. 'Back in December, though remnants of the Covenant still exist, and the Insurrection is ramping up again.'

He pointed to the room's main terminal and asked, 'Can I use this to display the information? It would be quicker than me relaying it.'

'Sure,' Melissa said.

'Thank you,' Scott said as he moved towards the terminal, plucking Tara's chip from his helmet to place it into the appropriate data port. Seconds later her avatar appeared on the screen, making a show of stretching one way and then the next before looking around the room and the occupants.

'Ah, much better,' Tara said. 'Some room to stretch my legs.'

'I thought you said you had plenty of room inside my head,' Scott said aloud.

'I said I was the only thing of note in there,' Tara shot back. 'It's still a cramped space, you know.'

A faint smile swept across the Spartan's features as he turned to Melissa and the man, questions on their faces, and he said, 'This is Tara, an AI I'm partnered with. She's the one with the files and can draw up the relevant ones quicker than I can.'

'Hello,' Tara said, waving at the two who waved back. 'Now, you said your brother's name was Carlos Anders, correct?'

'Y-Yeah,' the man said. 'I'm Chavez Anders if that helps.'

'It does,' Tara said, taking a moment to sift through her files. 'Ah, yes, here we go. Let me just display the record.'

She drifted to the side as Carlos Anders' file was brought up, showing all the relevant facts pertaining to his life as a member of the Outer Colony planet of Kohl, and during his time as a refugee following the colony's glassing. By and large he had an unremarkable childhood, performing above average at school without being considered exceptional or gifted, which continued throughout his teens where he achieved a passing grade upon graduation and sought employment in the logistics trade, driving a truck for a myriad of companies through an agency.

But whilst his formative years had passed by without any issues, none that warranted being mentioned here, the adult years of Carlos Anders was marred by several police infractions for, primarily, drunk and disorderly conduct starting only a year after joining the adult workforce. The first occurred where Carlos started off as just a bystander during a brawl between Marines on liberty and several Insurrectionist sympathisers, but later joined the fight against the Marines when it started to swing in their favour.

The police had let him off with just a warning given his highly intoxicated state at the time and previously clean record, but the second infraction resulted into a three day stint in jail and the beginning of closer scrutiny by authorities given, like before, the incident involved Carlos siding with a group that had pro-Insurrectionist leanings. From here he was observed as falling in deeper with a group that, had the Covenant not attacked, might have formed itself into a localised cell of Innies. He was never identified as a leader, lacking the apparent charisma and drive to be one, but neither was he set up to be the fall guy in the few instances the group ran afoul of the law.

During the Covenant's attack he was found, unconscious, next to the site of a plasma explosion by Marines and placed aboard a MEDEVAC flight that deposited him onto a waiting frigate, jumping shortly before he regained consciousness. His behaviour and politics gradually worsened at what was seen as a betrayal by the UNSC for leaving his brother and colony behind to die, as Chavez predicted, joining the Insurrection shortly after leaving Kohl where he found himself romantically involved with another rebel, one Susan Denning, who gave birth to a son less than a year after they met.

Unfortunately, Carlos Anders never got to see his son grow up as a raid by UNSC forces on the camp he now called home saw him killed in action, though Susan and their child escaped and continued to be thorns in the UNSC's side. Tara beamed their respective files to Scott's HUD and the Spartan flicked through them, seeing Susan made a name for herself as a ferocious ground forces commander who released several statements calling for the destruction of the UNSC as recompense for killing her husband and his brother, whom her child was named in honour of, and her son who, approaching twenty years of age, had proved himself to be just as adequate a fighter as his mother, and had taken up her quest for revenge with as much gusto, if not more so.

ONI reports had the duo operating out of Venezia for the most part, selling and trading arms when they weren't putting them to good use against UNSC targets, both military and civilian in nature, with a stolen passenger liner serving as both their home and launch pad for their various attacks across the Inner and Outer Colonies.

Scott grimaced at that, imagining that learning her brother-in-law was still alive would galvanise Susan Denning into action to come rescue him, and that she might bring more than a few Innies with her as reinforcements as a precaution, if not for any Covenant on the planet still but against any pro-UNSC groups that might oppose their landing and stance. Or, assuming they were smart enough to know the UNSC would hear the beacon as well, set up pre-prepared ambushes and traps for the subsequent search and rescue operations.

The ship Susan helmed was a passenger carrier Scott had seen often enough during planetary evacuations, each one capable of holding six-hundred souls and all their belongings, which made him wince upon realising that could make for a fairly large Insurrectionist presence on the ground if Susan actually came to Kohl. At least, for just a sole Spartan it was a moderately large group.

 _In a straight up fight it would be_ , Scott mentally corrected. He could pick at them with guerrilla attacks and hit and run tactics until friendly forces arrived on site, drive them down from six-hundred plus to a handful, and maybe convince some of the surviving Marines to take the fight to them. They were still technically UNSC DF personnel and, as a lieutenant commander, he outranked Captain Swanson. If he gave them an order, they'd have to carry it out or risk court-martial by the judge advocate general later on.

He made a mental note to speak with Dale and Swanson before hailing _Falcon_ about the possibility of engaging Insurrectionists, so as to factor in what he might be telling the corvette to expect, and turned back to Melissa and Chavez as they remained transfixed by the data file on Carlos.

'So that's Uncle Carlos?' Melissa said.

'Yeah,' Chavez said. 'You know, I'd almost forgotten what he looked like. All my photos of him were destroyed during the attack. Was he really killed fighting the UNSC?'

'I'm afraid so,' Tara said. 'He was present at an Insurrectionist camp on the planet New Harmony during a raid by ODST forces, and counted amongst the deceased during cleanup operations. According to the reports, he was found within a fixed fighting position holding an MA5 assault rifle that was short by twelve rounds.'

'I see,' Chavez said in a low tone, looking away from the screen. 'It, um, it said he had a wife and kid in that report. What-what happened to them?'

'They're alive,' Scott said when Tara turned his way. 'As far as ONI is aware, anyway. According to reports they're both members of the Insurrection and operate from Venezia as arms dealers and 'freedom' fighters, using the death of Carlos and your alleged death as rallying cries to their cause. If they pick up your signal and decode it, it's likely they'll come here at best speed.'

'And what are you going to do if that happens?' Chavez asked. 'That's technically my family, after all. She's my sister-in-law, and he's my nephew.'

'That changes nothing,' Scott said. 'I'm here to look for and evaluate any threats that are present, and take steps to reduce or eliminate them by the time reinforcements arrive. Given Susan and Chavez Denning's history of violence against UNSC personnel and civilians, they would constitute a very real threat to recovery operations should they make landfall.'

'But they're my family,' Chavez said.

'And you're free to take up arms against me to protect them,' Scott said. 'But that would mark you as an ally of a hostile faction and imply you fully understand and accept the risks of doing so. I would no longer see you as a survivor to be rescued and protected, but a threat that needs to be dealt with. The best case scenario in this instance would be you being incarcerated in a cell smaller than this room. I think you can guess the worst case scenario.'

Chavez paled at that but he repeated his statement Susan and her son were still family, suggesting he was fiercely devoted to anyone related to him, even people who up until ten minutes ago had been completely unknown to him and were responsible for the deaths of ten to fifteen thousand civilians between them.

'If you try to fight him, this whole place will come after you,' Melissa said. 'We're one big family here. An attack on one is an attack on us all.'

'I'll only fight him if he chooses to align himself with Insurrectionists, and actively takes up arms against me,' Scott said, turning to her. 'Otherwise I have no quarrel with Chavez Anders, or you or anyone else in this section of the bunker. I'm only going to perceive you as threats if you actually _are_ one.'

'They're family,' Chavez repeated and the Spartan idly wondered if finding out his brother died fighting the UNSC but left behind a wife and child had somehow locked his brain into a loop of some kind.

'So you keep reminding me,' Scott said. 'It still doesn't change anything. I'm going to oppose them if they make landfall, plus anyone who comes to their aid. It's as simple as that.'

'They're my family,' Chavez repeated once more.

' _Our_ family,' Melissa added.

Scott looked between the two as though sizing them up, seeing on the one hand a near catatonic man in his late forties or early fifties and on the other, a twenty something woman who had a borderline resolute look in her eye as she stared the Spartan down. Neither was armed, or even armoured, but the same could not be said for the rest of the people in the bunker.

'Are you saying you're choosing to ally with the Insurrection?' Scott said. 'To protect people you've never met and who are responsible for, at a conservative estimate, the deaths of ten thousand civilians across seven different UNSC colonies? Because if you are, my course of action from this point onwards will _not_ be kind to you, or anyone who follows you down this path.'

The two looked at each other, Chavez with his near catatonic pallor and Melissa with her fiery determination, and she said, 'I guess we are.'

The Spartan nodded then turned to Tara as she remained on the terminal, watching them all.

'Tara, open a channel to all screens you have access to,' he said. 'Ready for live broadcast.'

'Already on it, Commander,' she said, closing the file on Carlos Anders and bringing up a live feed of Scott, Melissa and Chavez as they stood in the leader's room. 'Ready.'

'This is Lieutenant Commander SPARTAN-B124, UNSC Navy,' Scott began, moving to fill the video feed fully. 'As of 1700 hours local time, Melissa and Chavez Anders had made plain their intention to ally with the Insurrection due to a tangential family connection to two members who may or may not be coming here, both of whom are complicit in terrorist acts across seven UNSC colonies that have resulted in the deaths of ten to fifteen thousand civilians, and as such are now considered enemies of the UNSC and the UEG.

'Anyone who wishes to stand with them is free to do so, but in doing so are acknowledging the forfeiting of any rights they had as a UNSC citizen and accept that criminal charges will be brought against any who are captured by UNSC personnel, with punishments ranging from life imprisonment in high security prisons to execution by firing squad for military personnel who defect.

'If you do not wish to be counted as an enemy of the UNSC or the UEG, and this is extended to any and all Elites currently residing here too, I recommend you return to the other cadre of human survivors on the south-west leg as soon as possible. A UNSC fleet can be here in approximately two months to aid in evacuation efforts and facilitate reunions between long lost family members and friends, though this will only be open to those who do _not_ align with the Insurrection.

'Combat operations can and _will_ be put into place should openly hostile actions be observed against UNSC-aligned forces, including the forceful detention of those not wishing to stand with Melissa and Chavez. This is your only warning.'

He made a subtle gesture for Tara to cut the feed and turned to face the other two humans in the room once the screen was blank, awaiting their response. Both seemed shocked at his declaration but neither seemed ready to issue a retraction of their intended actions, though there was certainly apprehension on their faces at being in the same room as what was now a hostile entity but, thankfully for their sake, neither was armed with any kind of weapon so, as per the rules of engagement, Scott was not permitted to harm them unless they made some kind of overtly aggressive action towards him.

They did flinch and shy away when the muted sound of gunfire erupted, coming from somewhere far below, suggesting that altercations were already breaking out between the people in the bunker though whether the people doing the firing were pro-UNSC or pro-Insurrection was unclear at this point. Even so, Scott drew his rifle and held it at the ready as he began moving towards the door once he had retrieved Tara's chip from the terminal.

Melissa and Chavez parted before him, knowing there was nothing they could do to the Spartan, but the same could not be said for the four guards standing outside with their weapons drawn and pointed at Scott. It would be the last thing they ever did.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 1705 Hours, February 12, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

The four men raised their rifles at Scott as he emerged from the room, their expressions set to anger and outrage, and fingers were tightening around triggers but the Spartan was quicker and swept his rifle across them all, firing short controlled bursts that struck each man in the chest and sent them crumbling to the ground, but he was already switching targets as incoming fire splashed across his shields from an SMG. His response was just as swift and accurate, sending the woman down with a trio of rounds erupting from the back of her head.

'Kicked the hornet's nest, didn't we?' Tara said as another assault rifle opened up from below, a smattering of rounds impacting Scott's shields.

'They're choosing to do this of their own accord,' he said, returning fire. 'I explicitly mention Melissa and Chavez were siding with the Insurrection based on a flimsy family connection, and to defend people who might not even be coming here.'

A grenade came flying at the Spartan who responded by jumping away from the blast, landing heavily on his side at the corner of the balcony where he saw a trio of guards running towards him with weapons drawn. All three let loose a volley of rounds and Scott responded in kind, though a poor firing angle meant his rounds tore through their legs only and they fell, screaming in pain, as Scott scrambled to his feet. One tried to raise their rifle at him but a quick burst stopped him midway. The other two were in no hurry to reach for their guns as they tried to stem the blood flowing from the wounds inflicted by Scott, so he pushed past them towards the stairwells.

'Plot a route back to the surface,' Scott ordered. 'I want to get back to Dale's group ASAP to tell them of recent developments ahead of radioing _Falcon_.'

'Working,' Tara said. 'Do you- Wait, I'm picking up a Marine transmission.'

'You are?' Scott said, momentarily puzzled, only to remember detecting Marine IFF tags amongst some of the guards who had met him up in the tram station. That, and his wasn't the only rifle being fired within this bunker. 'Patch it through.'

' _This is Sergeant McKenzie to Sierra One-Two-Four_ ,' a gruff voice said amid the clatter of automatic rifle fire. ' _Repeat, this is Sergeant McKenzie to Lieutenant Commander SPARTAN-B124. Please respond.'_

'Sierra One-Two-Four to Sergeant McKenzie,' Scott said. 'Send it.'

' _Sir, requesting support at my position. We are currently five levels below your current location, under fire from hostile forces.'_

'How do I know you're on the level, sergeant?' Scott said. 'You abandoned Captain Swanson and your fellow Marines.'

' _And I ain't proud of that_ ,' McKenzie said. ' _But Anders and her pop, they claimed they might be able to contact somebody off world, someone who could come rescue us all. The only reason they didn't tell Dale and the captain was that it might mean bringing the Innies, or even the Covenant here, and that wouldn't have sat well with them. They're patriots to the UNSC, sir, you can bet on it._

' _Me, I was thinking that if I could get somewhere with other ships I could take control of one and come back for the others, or visit Earth or Reach get a rescue mission going. That's it, sir. I was just approaching the problem from a different angle.'_

'You are aware of the consequences of what will happen if you're luring me into a trap,' Scott said. 'I won't go down easily.'

' _I've worked with Spartans before, sir_ ,' McKenzie said. ' _I know the damage you guys can bring to bear. Now, about my request for support? I've got maybe twenty or so people here with me.'_

'Acknowledged, sergeant,' Scott said. 'Stand by.'

' _Like I'm going anywhere_ ,' McKenzie muttered over SQUADCOM.

Tara placed a waypoint over the NCO's location and Scott took a quick glance at it as he moved towards the nearest stairwell, seeing a light platoon's worth of Marines defiladed inside a diner and trading fire with a group twice their size and one level up on the opposite side of the complex. It was strange that they were all armed and armoured so quickly after Scott's declaration that Melissa and Chavez, and all those who followed them, were considered members of the Insurrection and he hoped that Sergeant McKenzie had a good explanation for that.

'Check for active IFFs coming from the diner,' Scott said as he entered the stairwell. 'Let's see how many people in there are actually Marines.'

'Working,' Tara said. 'Done. There are twenty-one people in that diner but only nineteen IFFs. Partners and spouses, maybe?'

'Maybe,' Scott said as he came out on the level above the diner, the one with the pro-Insurrection forces.

They responded a little too slowly to his presence and were only just bringing their rifles to bear on him as two grenades landed in their midst, shredding everyone and blowing out all the nearby windows from the shockwave, but it removed the threat facing Sergeant McKenzie and his troops.

'Sergeant, you're clear,' Scott radioed as the Marines began creeping out of the diner. 'Move to my location and be ready for a hot EVAC.'

' _Negative, sir_ ,' McKenzie said as he came out of the diner and looked directly at the Spartan, one hand on his earpiece. ' _There's an armoury two levels down that we need to pick over before we can leave. That's where we were going when they pinned us.'_

'Is there anything of particular value in the armoury?' Scott asked. 'The longer we take to leave, the longer they have to prepare defences and overwhelm us. All our escape routes are _above_ us, sergeant. You know how difficult it is to fight against that.'

' _I do, sir,_ ' McKenzie said. ' _But I don't want to leave them with an intact munitions pile, either. Every bullet and grenade we take is one less they have to throw against us during any assault.'_

There was merit to the argument McKenzie was putting forward and Scott saw the benefit of stripping an enemy's stockpile of weapons and ammunitions, having raided and destroyed caches of Covenant and Insurrectionist weapons plenty of times before but always after careful planning and preparation. They were only ten minutes into what was likely going to be seen as the Battle of the Bunker during debriefs and so far the plan was to leave for safer territory. Making adjustments on the fly like this could lead to unforeseen consequences and casualties, but it could also cripple the enemy's war fighting capability.

'Understood,' Scott said. 'Make it quick, sergeant. I'll meet you there.'

' _Yes, sir_.'

Scott was moving before the sergeant was, not so much running down the stairs as he was leaping down them to land with solid thumps as half a ton of Spartan came crashing down on the concrete steps, cracking it, and he encountered only token resistance from the opposition. Was it right to truly call them Insurrectionists as, technically, Melissa and Chavez were more allying with Susan Denning out of family obligations rather than her beliefs that the UNSC needed to be eradicated so that the colonies could attain independence. It was only after Scott had made plain his intention to see her as a threat that the two sided with Susan. Up until then they seemed overly in favour of the UNSC, opting out of contacting them directly due to the fear their Elite comrades would be subject to harsh treatment by ONI.

He toyed with the idea of labelling them Anderists for the sole reason they were banding together due to loyalty towards Melissa and Chavez Anders, who were choosing to oppose the UNSC as a sign of solidarity with the wife and child or Carlos Anders, but ultimately discarded it for the time being when he arrived at the armoury which was a wholly misleading title. It was nothing more than an apartment chosen at random to serve as storage for a moderately sized collection of weapons and ammunition, boasting no extra reinforcements to the windows or door to prevent containment of any explosion, of any kind.

'I must be getting old if a swabbie manages to beat me down here,' McKenzie said from behind the Spartan, panting slightly from exertion but leading twenty others who quickly entered the armoury to stock up on as much as they could. 'Pleasure to meet you, sir. Sergeant McKenzie.'

'SPARTAN-B124,' Scott said, shaking the NCO's hand when he held it out. 'Are these all the Marines in the complex?'

'This is it, sir,' McKenzie said. 'Just the idiots who thought it was a good idea to follow this old fool on some stupid wild goose chase.'

'Let's hope their combat performance isn't adversely affected,' Scott said as they ducked into the armoury, filling their armour and packs with as much ammunition as possible, and then grabbing even more.

In the corner Scott spied a selection battle rifles, the old BR55 model, and immediately gravitated towards it. His role within Grey Team had always been that of a marksman alongside team leader, the former more a requirement of the latter as he needed to retain some distance from the front to keep an eye on everyone and everything around him, but it was a role that had come quite naturally to the Spartan and he would always seek out the weapon wherever possible during missions. Given the close confines of the bunker it was unlikely such a weapon was ever going to be necessary, but it always helped to be prepared for anything.

Scott stowed his assault rifle and picked up one of the battle rifles, checking the scope and calibrating it, then stocked up on as much ammo as he could possibly carry. When he looked back at the Marines he saw they were in much the same situation, carrying two or more weapons on their backs with every single pocket fit to burst with magazines and grenades, but unlike him they were well aware of the extra weight of the munitions, especially the duo that had picked up an M41 rocket launcher each, plus five reloads for the anti-vehicle and anti-structure platform.

'Anybody need anything else?' McKenzie called out. 'Last chance.'

'No, sergeant,' was the answer from all of them, with varying levels of enthusiasm.

'Good,' McKenzie said before turning to Scott. 'Orders, sir?'

'Head for the top,' the Spartan said, addressing the Marines. 'Our only objective at this point is to make it to safety, not engage any and all hostiles within this section. We'll advance using the stairwells with a fireteam of four Marines in each, using standard two by two cover tactics. One pair watches for hostiles approaching whilst the other secures the opening above. I'll be leading the fifth fireteam with Sergeant McKenzie and two Marines of his choice, plus both heavy weapons specialists. Our job is to serve as a rapid response team if the enemy has too tight a hold on a floor.

'Beyond that, watch your fire. There might be civilians looking to join us in escaping so be sure the person you're firing at _is_ hostile, and keep them as safe as possible if any do join you.'

He nodded at McKenzie who nodded back before shouting out the names of two Marines to join the response team he and Scott would be leading, before dispersing the rest into their fireteams ready to push upwards through the stairwells. It might have been quicker and easier to make use of the lifts in place around the complex but there was always the possibility they could be jammed between levels, or the cables supporting them severed, cutting their escape mission short that bit sooner than planned.

Without asking Tara brought up a projected number of how many people in the complex posed a threat to them, based on her trawling through the files thoughtfully kept on the terminal she had used to display Carlos Anders' file, and on the total number of people already eliminated by Scott and the Marines. Even after the losses incurred, there were still fifteen enemy troops for every one Marine which was not a number Scott liked, not when they were fighting a literal uphill battle. He could only hope the majority of those people were below them, and unarmed.

As they left the armoury and the fireteams moved to their assigned sectors, Scott tapped McKenzie on the shoulder and produced a grenade, saying, 'Insurance.'

A grin split McKenzie's lined face as he pulled one of his own out, both of them tossing the primed explosives into the armoury once the Marines were safely one floor above before running like hell. There was still plenty of explosives left in the armoury and neither one wanted to be nearby when they went up.

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 1729 Hours, February 12, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

There was still the occasional whump as another grenade cooked off or a magazine exploded coming from the former armoury, now little more than a blackened ruin, but it paled next to the pitched firefight being undertaken between the Marines and the rest of the bunker as they traded rifle fire from behind their concrete barriers. Scott popped up from behind the balcony and centred his crosshairs on the main body of someone's assault rifle, sending a trio of rounds from his battle rifle through it to ruin the weapon. The elevation difference was making it difficult to score lethal hits on the opposition but a destroyed weapon was just as good. Almost.

Grenades were still a very real concern and more than once some of the fragmentation devices had dropped down from above from troops that had no other weapon, though Scott was making it his main task of eliminating them wherever he saw one. He spied an arm snaking up from behind a wall, an olive drab ball held in its grasp, and he put a burst through the wrist supporting it. The grenade was dropped and fell down where it exploded, ripping apart the unfortunate user.

'Next level,' Scott ordered over SQUADCOM. 'Now.'

He trained his rifle across the balcony in search of threats then hurried up after the Marines when they radioed down to him. Progress was moderately good with a floor cleared every ten to twelve seconds, though injuries and then civilians tagging along had served to slow the UNSC force noticeably by Scott's estimation. On the plus side they had just three floors to go before they could make a break for the tram station, and from there the tunnels or even the surface. In less than a minute they would be free and clear.

A burst of gunfire raked across the Spartan's shields when he emerged onto the next floor and he returned fire automatically, spying even more heads and arms holding weapons lining the next floor up, and above them were the two dozen or so Elites that had defected from the Covenant to help the humans. Scott gritted his teeth at the prospect at fighting them as well, if only because they actually _had_ combat experience and functional armour systems, unlike most of the troops supporting Melissa. One looked his way and cocked its head to the side.

Then Scott's COM came to life as someone hailed him, someone that wasn't a Marine.

' _Spartan_ ,' the speaker said, an Elite judging by the voice. ' _Your promise of taking the Elites off this planet. Were you being truthful?'_

'Yes,' Scott half shouted, more annoyed at the interruption than anything else as he started dropping hostiles alongside McKenzie and his Marines.

' _And where would you take us?'_

'Your homeworld, I think,' Scott said. 'The UNSC and the Elites are friendly now, I think. I don't know all the details.'

' _Sanghelios?_ '

'Sure.'

' _And this offer is only open if do not side with the humans who live in this section of the bunker?'_

'Yes,' Scott said. 'Side with them and the UNSC will either lock you up in a prison, or kill you in the process of apprehending you. Does this have a point? I'm a little busy.'

' _It does, Spartan. One moment.'_

Curious, Scott glanced up at the numerous Elites who were gathered around one in particular as he spoke to them all, pointing at both the Marines and the survivors, then raised his hand into the air. Almost all of the other Elites held their hands up to, putting something to a vote it seemed, and when they lowered them they drew their weapons and opened fire on everyone _but_ the Marines. Only a handful actually had plasma weapons but they still managed to obliterate the Insurrectionists in short order, making full use of surprise and elevation to cut them down. Some managed to return fire and two Elites pitched forward over the balcony, dead, to land somewhere below with a wet splat.

' _Do not mistake this as allying with you, Spartan_ ,' the Elite from before said. ' _Our interest in human politics is non-existent. All we want to do is get home to Sanghelios, and the UNSC is likely the best option here. My brothers and I cannot truly trust the word of a human that kills unarmed civilians with hidden bombs like this relative you spoke of.'_

'Acknowledged,' Scott said. 'Hold that floor until we reach you, then join up with the Marine fireteams to clear the stairwells.'

' _Understood, Spartan.'_

'All Marines, be advised,' Scott said, switching to SQUADCOM. 'We are now being aided by Elites. Repeat, do not open fire on the Elites. They are helping us.'

Green lights flashed on his HUD, acknowledgements of the order, but they came in a second or two slower than usual as though the Marines were actually shocked by the idea. Regardless, the Marines reacted to the new situation like the professionals they were by running upwards to exploit the breakdown in enemy resistance, and joined up with three or four Elites in their stairwells to continue the advancement.

The tall alien warriors took it upon themselves to absorb the brunt of the fighting from this point onwards, laying down heavy suppressive fire when they reached a new floor and retreating only once the last civilian was clear and their shields were worn down to the point of collapsing. One Elite took on more than they could handle and crumpled to the floor, their chest riddled by bullets, and whilst any human fighter might have stopped to recover the body the Elites didn't, either because they hadn't noticed or their funerary customs didn't place as great an emphasis on having a body to bury.

The same couldn't be said of the Marines in Scott's fireteam, the two not burdened down by the heavy launchers rushing forward to grab the body and haul it up the stairs with them, Scott and McKenzie covering their retreat as best they could before running up to the very last floor before the tram station, finding only a token defence force that they quickly overwhelmed. It was much the same in the station and the joint Marine-Elite group headed for the nearest tunnel that would take them away from Melissa and Chavez and all the others when the last body had fallen, stopping only when they reached the next stop on the long disused transit system.

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 1800 Hours, February 12, 2553 (Military Calendar)**

Helmet mounted and underslung torches cut through the darkness of the station as the Marines and Elites took advantage of their respite to check over the wounded and dead amongst them, patching up what they could and saying funerary rites for those who had fallen. On the human side, three Marines and two civilians were dead with twice as many wounded, whilst the Elites had only lost three of their own during the escape with no wounds incurred. To Scott's surprise, they made an effort to help tend to the wounds of the humans rather than sit apart from the group given that, before lending aid, their leader had made it plain the politics of humanity was of no concern to them, and they were simply helping in the hopes of returning home.

Perhaps this was a result of both parties living together in the bunker for several years and interacting on a regular basis, developing personal relations with each other despite their history and differing cultures, but it could just as easily be a ploy by the Elites designed to endear them to the humans so that they'd follow through on their promise of taking them all back to Sanghelios when the rescue fleet arrived.

Whatever the reason, Scott was happy to let them continue if it meant the Marines had fewer things to worry about at this moment in time and so long as the Elites didn't suddenly reverse their position and begin posing direct threats to the wellbeing of everyone present. Twenty Elites could pose a very serious threat if they tried anything, even ones using mostly human weaponry and wearing armour twenty years old by this point, and casualties would ensue before Scott or the Marines could react.

'Don't trust them much, do you?' McKenzie said as Scott wrapped a dressing around a through and through in the sergeant's upper arm.

'Who?'

'The Elites,' McKenzie said. 'You're keeping one eye on them even now.'

'Only because I can't be sure of their motives,' Scott said. 'Even when massive revelations about some of their core beliefs came to light, not all Elites were swayed away from the view humanity is heretical, so why should I believe that they're any different?'

'Because I've lived with them for the past three years, sir,' McKenzie said. 'I know they've changed.'

'Sergeant, I'm unsure of _your_ motives at this point,' Scott said. 'Not only did you abandon your post to side with a group that you knew had tangential ties to the Insurrection, you were also armed and armoured and opening fire on Anders' followers mere seconds after I made my announcement. Not even my fellow _Spartans_ are that fast at gearing up.

'If your actions are suspect, how can I be expected to trust your word that those Elites have fully discarded their beliefs?'

McKenzie's face soured slightly and he gritted his teeth at being called untrustworthy by a Spartan, but he said, 'I told you why we went there, sir-'

'I recall,' Scott said, interrupting. 'You also told me you didn't speak with Captain Swanson about your plan because she and Dale are both anti-Insurrection and anti-Covenant, even though your goal was to acquire FTL capable transport to mount a rescue mission with. I'm sure both of them would have approved of such a mission.'

'Well, yeah,' McKenzie said. 'They would have-'

'So why not talk to them about it?'

'Because,' McKenzie began, only to falter and get flustered. 'Because... Because I don't know. It just didn't occur to me.'

'That's not a convincing argument, sergeant,' Scott said.

'Well it's the best I've got, sir,' McKenzie said. 'All I could think about was getting off this rock to get help, and I didn't know if the skipper and Dale would approve.'

'Even though you knew otherwise.'

McKenzie gritted his teeth again and began clenching and unclenching his hands, as though imaging he was pulling the trigger of a rifle, and looked away from Scott as he bored into the sergeant.

'Am I being put on trial here, sir?' McKenzie said.

'Do you feel you should be?' Scott said.

'No,' McKenzie said. 'But it sure feels like I'm being fitted out for a court martial.'

'I'm just getting a feel for you, sergeant,' Scott said. 'Until reinforcements arrive, it's likely I'm going to have to rely on you for support, and I want to know that support _will_ be there rather than a turncoat playing the long game.'

'And what's your feeling on me so far?'

'Not good.'

The sergeant turned to look Scott directly in the eye with a thunderous look on his face at having his integrity being called into question, which the Spartan met with an equally firm expression that was hidden by his helmet. He still wasn't fully convinced of where McKenzie's allegiances lay following his unauthorised leave of absence from under Captain Swanson's command, even with the assertion it was to attempt a rescue mission via unconventional means, and the fact McKenzie and all of the Marines who had followed him were fully equipped for combat so soon after Scott had shown up.

Word would have to be gotten to all the Marines that they needed to gear up, and to then meet up at a prearranged rendezvous once every piece of armour was put into place. Mendez had liked to test the Beta Company recruits in this manner on more than one occasion, sounding a general alert of hostiles inbound that sent everyone scrambling for their fatigues and armour before mustering at their preset sectors. Sometimes he did it during mealtimes, or in the middle of classes, or even an hour or two after lights out that saw everyone running around in darkness just to test them under unfavourable situations.

He could understand if the Elite vanguard in the tram station had gotten word to the people in the bunker of an unknown's presence, and they were preparing for an assault or to reinforce the Elite should the fight become protracted, but then why not come forward and announce themselves once it become common knowledge a Spartan was in their midst? Surely any UNSC personnel would want to report to a superior officer as soon as to not appear as complicit in dubious practices.

Despite his commendable efforts in escaping the residential section, Sergeant McKenzie's motives were still unknown to the Spartan and his poor attempt at defending his actions hadn't cleared them up by any measurable degree, or made him appear any less suspect than he already was.

'I'm no traitor,' McKenzie said, breaking the silence that had fallen of them both. 'Sir.'

'Your recent actions and decisions, and defence of them, cast doubt onto that,' Scott said. 'But you have the next few weeks and months to acquit yourself of this, sergeant. Is that clear?'

'Crystal, sir,' McKenzie said in a low growl which gave Scott the impression the NCO was forming a poor opinion of him, not that it overtly bothered the Spartan.

He had fought alongside plenty of sergeants of all ranks during his career, some of them good and some of them bad, and all of them had responded to his command with just as much variety as their skill set. Some were eager to carry out the orders of a Spartan, fully buying into the propaganda being pumped out by ONI Section Two, whilst others resented him coming in to take the spot of a favoured officer that had gotten incapacitated, expressing their feelings by small displays of defiance that toed the line of insubordination, and what sergeants did invariably affected the attitudes of their subordinates.

McKenzie and his troops were required to follow the orders given to them by Scott lest their face charges of insubordination and dereliction of duty, but they were just as able to do so with leeway in how they did it to make his life in combat that much harder, or just flaunt their disrespect by neglecting to use the proper honorific and rank when responding to orders.

The likelihood of Scott and McKenzie working alongside one another after this was slim to none as Swanson probably had her plans for the wayward sergeant when he returned to the fold, guard duty in a distant location maybe or being confined to quarters until she could be sure of where his loyalties lay, and would furnish the Spartan with some of her best troops for whatever combat operations he planned to carry out until reinforcements arrived on site.

'Very well,' Scott said. 'We'll spend fifteen more minutes here before setting off towards the western leg to reunite with Dale and Captain Swanson. Organise a rearguard to protect against surprise attacks. I'll lead the group.'

'Yes, sir.'

McKenzie got to his feet with atypical lethargy, taking a long moment to inspect the dressing on his wound once he was upright, then wandered off towards his Marines with a loping gait that told Scott the sergeant was going to display his displeasure by way of drawing out every single order he received. Whether he was going to carry this over to combat was up for debate and Scott sincerely wished he didn't. It was one thing to toe the line during down times, but in the midst of a firefight was another thing entirely. Failure to promptly carry out orders when bullets were flying was a great way of losing lives unnecessarily.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

 **Spartan-B124, City of Newport. 0901 Hours, February 13, 2553. (Military Calendar)**

A direct route back to Dale's bunker was not an option.

Either as a result of having a Spartan force their way through, or simply because of bad luck, part of the tunnels Scott had worked his way through had collapsed to create such an effective barricade that no amount of effort, or any amount of curses, could shift the rubble blocking the tunnel. Equally, they couldn't retrace their steps back through the bunker held by the Anders as that would lead to a firefight, which was something Scott wanted to avoid given how many civilians they had, and how heavily laden down everyone was.

That meant heading topside to traverse the ruins of Newport, and that meant finding cold weather gear for everyone who didn't already have it so they could brave the snowy wastelands above without fear of risking hypothermia or frostbite. Failing that, some kind of bus or truck that could be converted into a rudimentary chariot Scott and the Elites would pull behind them though they'd then need working tools and enough raw materials to cover up any and all holes that the cold could seep through, and fashion a crude burner to heat the inside, and find enough fuel for it.

Of the two, Scott felt that finding cold weather gear was going to be more likely to succeed as the residents of Newport, those that had descended into looting when the Covenant came knocking, would have overlooked such items during the chaotic retreat from the system in favour of more expensive things like PDAs and jewellery. The only problem was the task of finding a clothing store that both tailored to outdoors enthusiasts and hadn't been reduced to rubble by a plasma torpedo or stray missile. Thankfully Tara had a full list of where such shops were to cut down on the search time.

A cool blue waypoint was visible on Scott's HUD as he and the leader of the Elites, Srul 'Katon, worked their way down one of Newport's many streets through shin high banks of snow, dodging around the numerous wrecks left behind by the Covenant's attack all those years ago. The Spartan kept sweeping his gaze across the terrain before him, left to right and up and down, searching for possible targets, whilst Srul simply looked around at the devastation with something akin to curiosity, occasionally clacking his mandibles together like he was shrugging a thought off but never speaking. At least, not to start with.

'I've never set foot on a planet that was glassed before,' he said, breaking the silence. 'Nor been on one whilst it was _being_ glassed, though I had often wondered what it was like.'

Scott cast a glance over his shoulder at the Elite, recalling the first time he had experienced a glassing and the emotions and feelings it had filled him with, and all his subsequent encounters with the Covenant's planetary bombardment weaponry, but said nothing back in return.

'As with all things in the Covenant,' Srul continued. 'glassing was something akin to a religious ceremony. The Prophet assigned to a fleet would conduct an hour-long ceremony, then decree by which religious significance the planet was to be glassed by. This glyph would then be burned into the ground ahead of the actual glassing process.'

Again, Scott held his silence as he looked at Srul. He could have cared less about what kind of ceremonies and rituals were conducted ahead of glassing a planet, or if some particular religious trait was attributed to a particular glassing. All he cared about was finding either transport off the planet being subject to bombardment, or figuring out a way to destroy the ship or ships carrying out the task if the planet was of vital strategic importance.

'With some worlds, the Prophets would send teams to collect a shard of glass from the surface,' Srul said, apparently taking Scott's silence for listening with rapt attention rather than indignant apathy. 'Usually the worlds that held special significance for you, or were particularly tenacious in their resistance. They were then kept on High Charity as a reminder of the foes defeated by the might of the Covenant. A testament of our commitment to the Great Journey.'

He paused then added, 'I suspect much of what the Prophets told us were lies. After all, they told us that humanity was a heretical species worthy of nothing more than total destruction, yet you fought with such valour and conviction that I always wondered. Did you know, Spartan, that humanity was the first species encountered by the Covenant that wasn't offered a chance to join?'

'No, I didn't,' Scott said, finally speaking.

'It should have been the first indication all was not right,' Srul said. 'In over seventeen-hundred years, by your calendar, the Covenant had never once ordered the outright destruction of a species so shortly after meeting them. There were those, a small number of course, who wondered why that might be. It's something I've tried to grasp since getting stranded here. I don't suppose you know why, Spartan?'

'No,' Scott said. 'I don't.'

Srul clacked his mandibles together in thought and gazed up at the gutted remains of an apartment complex, the windows blown out by the explosion, pausing for a moment to stare at the ruin with more scrutiny.

'Do you know how many died as a result of the Prophets?' he asked.

This made Scott stop and turn to face the Elite fully, glancing between him and the spot his gaze seemed to be locked onto. It was a charred bit of wall, the recipient of a plasma strike, but closer inspection showed the warped, partially melted remains of a skeleton embedded into the concrete. There was too much deformation of what little remained to determine if it was a man or woman, but the jaw of the skeleton was hanging open as though screaming.

'Twenty-three billion,' Scott said quietly. 'Civilian and military.'

'That many?'

Srul blinked in surprise as he span around to look at the Spartan, eyes wide, then he dipped his head and clasped both hands before him as though meditating, uttering some kind of prayer asking for the forgiveness of those killed according to the translation software. When he finished, he looked back at the skeleton.

'Do you think anybody knows why the Prophets decreed humanity as vermin?' he asked.

'Maybe,' Scott said. 'Probably.'

The Elite paused and went quiet again, deep in thought, then came out with, 'What do you think happened?'

'I think aliens came to kill us all,' Scott said. 'Does it really matter?'

'Yes, it matters!' Srul snapped, rounding on Scott who hitched his rifle a little higher on reflex. 'I want to know why the Prophets called for the deaths of over twenty-three billion people! Was it simply a miscommunication of whichever scouts discovered your worlds? Or was it intentional? There has to be a reason!'

'And how will knowing the answer affect you?' Scott said. 'Whether it was all a misunderstanding or a lie.'

'Because then I will know,' Srul said. 'And then I will know how much effort to put into atoning for the actions of myself, and that of my fellow Elites! A misunderstanding I can believe, given the differences between groups. A lie, though?'

His head drooped, as did his shoulders, and the Elite shook his head solemnly.

'Twenty-three billion of your people, and countless millions of ours, all dead because of a lie,' Srul said quietly. 'There can be no atoning for that.'

Scott said nothing in response to that. He had never really given the matter of _why_ the Covenant had attacked much thought, mostly because he was either too young to delve into their motivations or because any thoughts he had regarding the aliens were focused solely on ways of killing them. Even now, with the conclusion of the war, he didn't care enough to find out why it was the Prophets made the decision to wipe humanity out rather than absorb it into their numbers. All that mattered to him was that humanity survived, and maybe a little pride at knowing he and his fellow Spartans had helped make that happen.

Of course, it would have been preferable for the Covenant to have never appeared in the first place. That way twenty-three billion people wouldn't have died, including Scott's parents, and all those colonies wouldn't be desolate balls of glass and ash like Kohl was.

He shrugged mentally as cast his gaze over the nearby buildings, looking for any sign of trouble, then looked upwards at the gas giant Kohl orbited through a rare break in the clouds, wondering how long it might be until Susan Denning would be arrived with her six-hundred odd troops, and if she might be bring more ships than that. Though Scott felt fairly confident in his ability to tackle such a large group of foes in an underground bunker, he would have felt even better having Emily backing him up. The Spartan-III training placed great emphasis on working together as a team to accomplish an objective, so operating alone didn't quite bode well with the Beta Company graduate.

Scott grimaced at that and turned back to Srul who remained staring at the skeleton, likely still puzzling out the mystery of why the Prophets had launched their campaign of genocide against humanity. Unless someone with knowledge came forward, an unlikely possibility as those in the know would be far and few between, and probably dead, it was going to be a question that kept the Elite up at night, if it didn't already.

'We should keep moving,' Scott said, snapping Srul out of his reprieve. 'We don't know who or what's out here, and the weather might not hold out for much longer. Poor visibility increases our chances of being ambushed.'

'Of course,' Srul said, blinking several times. 'Lead on, Spartan.'

 **Spartan-B124, City of Newport. 1247 Hours, February 13, 2553. (Military Calendar)**

Snow returned shortly after the recon teams found enough cold weather gear for everyone, and accompanying it were high winds that whipped the flakes up into such a frenzy that visibility was reduced to almost nothing, forcing the party to seek shelter in the subterranean entrance to the bunker complex whilst they waited for the storm to subside. Some of the Elites had found an old barrel and filled it with fuel to create both a source of light and warmth, the majority of the group crowding around it as best they could. The exception to this was Scott who sat a ways off from everyone, battle rifle cradled in his hands as he cast his gaze towards the stairs leading back outside.

The chance of a hostile coming at them was almost non-existent at this point given both the weather and number of entrances they had to choose from, but standing guard gave him an excuse to sit apart from the group. McKenzie's disposition towards him had spread to the rest of the Marines and they, like their sergeant, were giving him cold looks when they happened to turn his way and lethargically responding to his commands, and Srul was not the only Elite ruminating on why the Prophets had called for the eradication of humanity. He and some of the other Covenant defectors were engaged in a quiet but intense discussion over the possible reasons, arguing and counter-arguing over their theories.

He doubted the saurian aliens might have tried to include him in their discussion given the apathy Srul had seen him display earlier about the matter but, like standing guard, it never hurt to put safeguards in place in case they wanted to hear his thoughts. As it was, his thoughts were drifting to the task of engaging Susan Denning's forces if, or likely when, they made landfall on Kohl to seek out the survivors of their family. They'd probably disperse the majority of their forces underground to link up with the survivors and establish a solid base of operations to work from, leaving just a token guard behind to watch the ship.

It would be easy to overpower whatever security team she put into place and destroy the ship, or at least cripple it, leaving those underground just as stranded as the Newport residents had been for all those years. The problem then would be tackling the rest of Denning's forces as they doubled down on their physical defences and settled in for a long fight, either until UNSC relief troops arrived or Insurrectionist forces came to reinforce their position. The cramped conditions of the tunnels would work against them, offering limited avenues of approach in a complex they weren't familiar with and couldn't control all the systems of. That honour was held by Dale's people and Tara, once she was in the system.

Scott could order her to isolate any recon teams in stretches of tunnels with their doors intact and still capable of moving, starving them into submission or breaking the group up into more manageable sizes. She'd even be able to take control of the lighting systems and plunge them into darkness whenever she wanted to. Being forced to fight in sudden darkness was more than a little disorientating, and probably terrifying, which then started a new train of thought within the Spartan's head.

'Srul, McKenzie,' he called out, looking back at the group. 'What kind of horror stories get told down here about the bunker?'

'Horror stories?' McKenzie said. 'Really? Look, sir, I know we've got a campfire going and everything but now's not the time to be telling stuff like that.'

'Agreed,' Srul said. 'Now is the time to be planning for when the other humans arrive.'

'I am,' Scott said. 'And knowing what horror stories are told here is part of it.'

There was maybe a second's pause as both McKenzie and Srul thought about it, their eyes both lighting up with realisation around the same time, and they and the others began discussing all the various stories people told one another about what ghouls and goblins dwelled down here with them in the darkened tunnels. Most of them were fairly standard for life in such a setting. Stretches of tunnels that could swallow up a wanderer, never to be seen again, or of the ghosts that roamed the dead city above them and how their moans could be heard everywhere, even when the wind was still, and even how the central hub of the complex contained a gateway to the underworld below which is why nobody had ever heard anything from there. Essentially, anything to scare young children away from going anywhere they shouldn't.

'You planning some kind of psychological warfare?' McKenzie asked.

'Yes,' Scott said. 'Most of Denning's troops will be down here with us, and instilling fear in them will be the most effective way of breaking their morale.'

The sergeant nodded in agreement, inadvertently looking downwards into the tunnels below and shivered in revulsion at the idea of being tormented in such a place. They were already foreboding enough with their still air and absolute silence without considering what kind of horrors Scott had in mind for the Insurrectionists that were coming to play.

Scott himself was wondering about what resources he might have to call upon to implement his chosen plan of action. With any luck, Captain Swanson would have a number of ODSTs under her command for the Spartan to work with, or at least some Marines who had trained under Dale to learn some of the tactics and methods taught to the Spartan-Is way back when. He'd have to work with them a little to get a feel for their skillset and to see if living underground had softened them any, but he didn't doubt that their desire to kill Insurrections had gotten any less in all their years in the bunker. After all, Innies had killed plenty of their fellow Helljumpers and bragged about the fact, or even tortured and mutilated some of those they had captured for information, or just because they could.

The actual tactics would have to wait until he got a firm idea of the calibre of troops he'd be working with, and to do that they first needed to traverse the cold and frigid wasteland above once the storm abated. Lacking any kind of meteorological service, the best Scott could do was sit and wait for the weather to calm down.

 **Spartan-B124, City of Newport. 1801 Hours, February 13, 2553. (Military Calendar)**

Around fifty or so cones of light cut through the pre-dusk gloom settling over Newport, catching individual flakes of snow as they drifted downwards to join the already thick layer on the ground that the group was forcing its way through. Scott was on point, his eyes sweeping over every conceivable ambush point or sniper's perch as he led everyone through Newport's streets towards the underground entrance that connected Dale's bunker with the world above. Everyone else was strung out in a line maybe a hundred metres long behind him, chemlights attached to their backs to help keep everyone together, though the Spartan still kept one eye on his motion tracker should someone start veering off course.

'So what kind of dark horrors are you going to plague the Innies with?' Tara asked. 'Fear of the dark, sure, but they have torches mounted onto their rifles just like you. Remember?'

'I know,' Scott said. 'But there are other primal fears to work with.'

'Like?' Tara said.

'Fear of the unknown,' Scott said. 'These tunnels are going to be very unfamiliar to Denning's troops and, even though intellectually they know otherwise, there'll always be that small voice in the back of their head whispering about monsters hiding in the shadows. We can prey on that by making the occasional patrol disappear without a trace, not even a drop of blood, in a specific part of the bunker. With any luck they'll come to believe _something_ lives there that's inhuman, reinforced by assaults by whatever special forces we have that _attempt_ to be stealthy attacks but fail somehow, revealing ourselves.

'Other times we might embellish our appearances slightly and make use of the complex's sound system during such an engagement, leaving behind a sole witness that can attest to there being a monster in the tunnels. Alternatively, we can just leave behind a bloody mess to give the impression there really is a beast here in the tunnels.'

'And how do you propose we accomplish that?' Tara said. 'The last I checked, you don't have vicious claws or teeth to use to tear enemies apart with.'

'No,' Scott said. 'But I'm sure the engineers and metal workers in Dale's bunker can come up with something. I recall either Hullum or Heyman telling me that people in the wastes made custom unarmed weapons from the hands of deathclaws that were just as capable of tearing a person apart as the real thing. With my augmented strength, I'm fairly certain I can accomplish the same as one.'

'I'm sure you would,' Tara said. 'Though what would you do if some tried to ride your back?'

'I can actually reach back there,' Scott said. 'Unlike a deathclaw.'

The AI chuckled a little at that and even Scott had to give a faint smile at the memory he had of riding one of the gargantuan mutant reptiles during his time in the Mojave Wasteland, plunging his knife deep into its throat as the beast thrashed around in a vain attempt to grasp hold of him before firing his SMG point blank into the base of its skull, and at the resultant banter between the ODST squad accompanying him and their wasteland guide, only for the smile to fade when he thought Hullum and how he had come to an untimely demise in the arctic wastelands of what was once Canada.

'How soon do you think the Innies will reach the conclusion that a Spartan is actually behind the 'beast' attacks?' Tara said.

'I'm sure they'll reach the conclusion soon enough,' Scott said. 'But I'm going to force myself to make several blunders during the covert attacks on their patrols and allow one or more survivors to escape. That way, word should reach their command staff that I can't be the one committing the visceral attacks on their troops because I'm not good enough at concealment.

'They may, even, assume I'm a Spartan-IV rather than a -II or -III.'

As much as Section Two was playing up the abilities and skills of the latest generation of supersoldiers, they just couldn't hold any kind of candle next to their predecessors in terms of skills and combat potential. Though they were pulled from the best humanity had to offer, they only underwent a few months of training before getting their MJOLNIR armour and Spartan certification, whereas the Twos had trained for the better part of a decade from the age of six. Even the Threes, who had a shorter training period, suffered under the sadistic eye of SCPO Mendez for five or six years at a time. Combat was such a part of them that no Spartan-II or Spartan-III could imagine doing anything else.

In a sense they could probably be compared to supplements for the older generation of Spartans, freeing them up to tackle the truly difficult missions that required superhumans by dealing with the lesser threats cropping up in the post-war galaxy, or for those missions where a decidedly human touch was needed. Even Scott could admit he was lacking when it came to interacting with non-Spartans in non-combat situations, knowing he came off as aloof and abrasive when speaking with others.

'If they do find out, it'll only inflame their hatred of the UNSC,' Tara warned a moment later. 'They already portray Spartans as monsters and thugs doing Earth's bidding. Actual footage of you tearing their 'freedom' fighters to shreds with claws will serve only to bolster their resolve and anger.'

'So we don't let them find out,' Scott said. 'It's as simple as that.'


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 1930 Hours, February 13, 2553. (Military Calendar)**

When Scott returned to the bunker he found an increased amount of guards in the tram station above the residential sector, all of them on high alert as they swung their rifles in his general direction as the Spartan approached before lowering them again upon recognising him. Even so, they watched him warily as Cline separated himself from the crowd and walked up to Scott, eyes widening in surprise slightly at seeing the literal armoury he carried on his back now.

'Sir,' Cline said. 'You're back. I assume things at the northern bunker went… differently to ours.'

'Yes,' Scott said. 'Vastly different. I need to speak with Captain Swanson and Dale immediately regarding the developments.'

'Uh, sure,' Cline said, reaching for his radio.

He moved off a few paces and spoke into the mic, communicating the new situation to his superiors and that Scott had requested a meeting with Dale and Swanson as soon as was possible. The voice on the other end sent a quick confirmation that Scott was clear to come in and meet them, so Cline assumed the role of escort once again and led Scott back down into the residential sector to Dale's quarters where he and Swanson were waiting. They both rose and saluted the Spartan, which he returned, and dismissed Cline to return to his normal duties.

'I take it from your new loadout that things didn't quite go to plan,' Dale said, noting as Cline had the battle rifle Scott now cradled.

'Not entirely,' Scott said. 'My mission was to establish contact with the various groups and holdouts in this bunker, and assess what threat they might pose to follow on UNSC rescue forces, and so far I have been able to stick to that plan.'

'So they've turned against the UNSC, huh?' Dale said.

'Yes,' Scott said. 'Well, some have. There's actually a group of fifty or so holding position in the external access tunnel leading into the processing centre. Given that they left under a cloud, I was unsure of how you wanted to proceed with reintegrating them back into the bunker.'

'Who's in the group?' Dale asked.

'Tara has a full list,' Scott said, gesturing to a nearby screen. 'May I?'

'By all means,' Dale said.

Scott nodded a thanks and strode over to the nearby wall mounted monitor, removing Tara's chip from his head and inserting it into the monitor. An instant later the AI's avatar appeared on the screen as she pulled up a full list of all the humans that had accompanied Scott during his retreat from the bunker. Swanson's eyes in particular went wide when she saw the names of Sergeant McKenzie and his Marines were included there, her mouth contracting into a scowl.

Technically, McKenzie had gone AWOL when he chose to accompany the splinter group of survivors, having cleared it with neither his commanding officer or the bunker's leader, even if his motivation was in the right place. Any punitive measures that Swanson might dish out would hinge on the findings of a military tribunal.

'I don't think people will be happy to see many of those again,' Dale said, leaning back in his chair. 'They left because they chose to ally with the very Elites that destroyed our home.'

There was a pause then Scott said, 'There are more in the group.'

'Who?' Dale said.

'The Elites.'

The colour drained from both Dale and Swanson's faces at the revelation of that piece of information, which Scott could fully appreciate. His home had received the exact same treatment as Kohl, getting bombarded to molten glass by the Covenant back in 2536 until nothing remained. His parents had stayed behind on the planet, giving up their space on the final Pelican so he could escape, and Scott remembered with vivid clarity the tears that had streamed down his face as he looked at his parents for the final time, and the unbridled rage he soon felt towards the Covenant for taking them away from him.

He wouldn't have even bothered the entertain the notion of entering peace talks with the Elites back then, just their utter destruction by his hands in an act of bloody, unending revenge. To a certain extent, he still wouldn't today if the Elite responsible for burning Albion to ash was stood before him. His only thought would be to pummel the Elite to a bloody pulp.

'We won't house them,' Dale said as a matter of fact. 'I don't care that they've renounced their ties to the Covenant, or want to try and make amends for what they did, or that the UNSC has diplomatic ties with their people, the people of this bunker didn't want to house them when they first showed up and they won't now.'

'I assumed as much,' Scott said. 'And I never expected your people to house them. There are enough empty residential complexes for them to stay in until rescue forces arrive. Telling you of their presence was more of a courtesy than anything else.'

Dale grunted. 'So long as that's it.'

'They're going to need provisions if they're to last until help gets here,' Scott said. 'At least two months' worth of food.'

'That's pushing it, Commander,' Dale said.

'I'd rather not make it an order,' Scott said back. 'Technically, this planet is still a UEG colony and therefore subject to its laws still. As a member of the UNSC, and given the presence of two hostile factions on this planet, I can declare martial law and assume direct command of all military and civilian assets until such a time that the threat has been resolved. That would include ordering the delivery of provisions to a group that is allied with the UNSC.

'Failure to comply with this order would result in judiciary proceedings.'

The room went quiet as Scott let his threat hang in the air, staring Dale directly in the eye as the older generation of augmented soldier tried to figure out if Scott was bluffing or not before deciding that he wasn't, and that any punishments he might face would all result in him spending the remainder of his life in an even smaller box than the one he was currently in. He averted his gaze from the Spartan and nodded.

'Fine,' Dale said quietly. 'We'll give them the supplies they need.'

'Understood,' Scott said, before softening his tone. 'I understand why you wouldn't want to help the Elites, either of you. They killed my parents and destroyed my home as well, back in 2536. It's the reason why I signed up to become a Spartan, and why I don't agree with the UNSC's diplomatic relationship with the Elites either.

'But that's the situation we're in right now, and like it or not we're going to have to live with that fact.'

They both looked at him with surprise on their faces at hearing such a tone coming from half a ton of metal that was weighed down with masses of weapons, ammunitions and explosives, but nodded their heads in agreement at his sentiment. Their readjustment to the new galaxy was going to be a tough one, but it was either follow with it or renounce their loyalty to the UNSC.

'Now tell us about what happened in their bunker,' Dale said.

'In a moment,' Scott said. 'First, tell me about the increased security presence in the tram tunnels.'

 **Spartan-B124, interior of Newport bunker complex. 2007 Hours, February 13, 2553. (Military Calendar)**

The increased security presence was down to growing rumblings from those within the bunker that had taken the newfound alliance with the Elites particularly hard, whispering amongst themselves of ideas of seceding from UNSC control and establishing a new home for themselves where they could invite other humans that had lost it all to the Covenant and now burned with passionate hatred for all things alien. Only, some of the people in power had gotten wind of their talks and decided it sound just enough like the beginnings of a violent rebellion to warrant incarceration until the relief effort arrived.

Unfortunately for those remaining loyal to Earth, an informant in their number had gotten word to those planning to secede and upwards of three-hundred souls had vanished overnight into the complex, taking with them arms and ammunition in large enough quantities that they could cause serious amounts of damage if they chose to attack. Given there was no telling how many people in the bunker harboured sympathetic feelings towards the secessionists, or were now undercover agents that had deliberately remained behind, Captain Swanson was increasing the security level across every point of entry into their section until they could be found and dealt with.

Areas that were particularly vulnerable to sabotage or were vital to the continuation of sustaining life in the bunker were under even heavier guard by units that Captain Swanson had her utmost trust in, and even then they were kept under close scrutiny. Tremors of fear were already spreading through the civilian populace as rumours and gossip ran rampant throughout the complex, putting a dampener of their lifted spirits.

Scott took all this information in and just added it to the lists of threats and issues he'd have to deal with between now and the arrival of the UNSC's battlegroup, his mind already churning away at how best to tackle that particular problem even as he stood before what remained of the Marine officers that had hidden themselves beneath the surface when the Covenant began their glassing operations. What had once been a full regiment of 3,200 Marines was now an understrength battalion of 649, plus two platoons of ODSTs that had followed them underground.

Attrition now meant that Captain Swanson was leading them all, rather than a lieutenant colonel or a major, and her companies had lieutenants leading them rather than captains, but if their combat performance over the past twenty years was anything to go by then it meant the system was working well, the Marines' ability to adapt and overcome arduous situations serving them well, and Scott saw no reason to mess with it if he was to depend on these troops to take the fight to the incoming Insurrectionists.

'As of 1700 hours yesterday,' Scott began as he addressed the amassed Marines. 'the survivors who currently reside in the northernmost complex of this facility have been tagged as hostile, following a declaration by their leaders of solidarity with a known Insurrectionist group led by this woman, Susan Denning.'

Behind him, Tara pulled up an indistinct image ONI had acquired of Susan during a covert operation on Venezia a few months before the unofficial end of the Human-Covenant War, investigating renewed Innie activity of a different nature and utilising a moment of opportunity to grab an image of the woman that had caused thousands of deaths over the previous few decades. She was handing off some kind of weapon to another Innie, the detail too poor to make it out clearly enough, but it was focused enough to capture her features in detail.

'It is believed that she will be arriving on Kohl at some point in the near future in response to a distress signal the residents of the northern bunker sent out just over seventeen months ago, and will be bringing with her upwards of six-hundred troops aboard a converted passenger liner. If she does make landfall before UNSC reinforcements arrive, it'll be our job to eliminate her group before they can gain a foothold or pose a serious threat to rescue efforts.'

'How can you be sure she's coming here?' one of the lieutenants asked. 'Why would the Innies be interested in this ball of ice?'

'Because Susan Denning is the sister-in-law of Chavez Anders, and aunt to Melissa Anders, who are the de facto leaders of the northern bunker,' Scott said, going on to explain how Susan used the abandonment of Kohl as a rallying call for people to join her cause. 'She's likely to come at best speed to rescue anyone in her immediate family, especially the brother of her dead husband. Family seems to be a strong sentiment with the Anders.'

He had also explained why Chavez and Melissa, and in turn the rest of their bunker, were allying with the Insurrectionists which had generated looks of utter disbelief and snorts of contempt from the Marines. Others just looked on with rage in their eyes after learning how many fellow jarheads had died by Susan's hand, often in gruesome and needlessly cruel ways, which was good. It meant they'd readily take the fight to her and her forces.

'Combat operations will be conducted in a series of phases,' Scott said, Tara adjusting the screen behind him to showcase each point in text as he made it. 'Phase one will be to move against and secure the Insurrectionist cell located in the northern bunker, and place any survivors under guard until they can be transferred to proper holding facilities. If we are able to locate the people who left this bunker last night, we'll do the same to them but they aren't a priority.

'Phase two will be the elimination of the remnant Covenant forces in the southeast reactor. I'll be conducting this phase alone.'

Various cries of discontent rose up from the Marines at that, each one itching to finally stamp out the Covenant forces here once and for all, but Scott quietened them down with a wave of his hand.

'Sir,' Swanson said. 'With all due respect, why just you? There's more than 250 of the bastards in there! You'll need our support.'

'Their base is highly irradiated,' Scott countered. 'And your Marines lack adequate protection to conduct lengthy combat operations in such an environment. I'd rather keep them all ready for if, or when, the real threat arrives on the planet.'

'Sir,' Swanson said, hesitating as though she was going to voice another objection before deciding against it. 'Yes, sir.'

'Still, that's a lot of bad guys to fight through,' another Marine pointed out. 'Maybe even too much for a Spartan.'

'I'll get it done,' Scott said. 'Us Threes are highly motivated when it comes to destroying members of the Covenant, regardless of how many there are. They won't be around for much longer.'

The Marine nodded, as did a few others around him, as the briefing continued.

'Phase three,' Scott said. 'is dependent on where Susan Denning chooses to park her ship. When I make contact with _Falcon_ I'll request a low level flyby of the city to acquire detailed topographical data so we can determine suitable landing sites. Once that's done, heavy weapons units will deploy around the perimeter of the landing zone and fire upon the ship either as it comes in to land or begins offloading troops.

'Our goal in this phase is to remove the Innies' ability to call for help or flee should things turn against them, as they likely will, and force them to retreat underground where we hold the advantage. Phase four will consist of conducting both conventional warfare aimed at eroding any footholds they managed to acquire, and unconventional warfare with the express intent of demoralising them to the fullest extent.'

He turned to the ODSTs. 'I assume your troops will be up for that part of the operation, master sergeant?'

'Yes, sir, we will,' the grizzled ODST said, a nasty smile on his face. 'It'll be good to put the fear of god into those ungrateful bastards.'

'Understood,' Scott said with a nod. 'I have some ideas to run by you and your troops at some point. I'm sure they'll meet with your approval.'

'The darker the better, sir.'

Scott nodded again and turned back to the bulk of the Marines.

'Time is of the essence,' he said. 'Susan Denning's arrival could be months away, when we have the battlegroup in orbit, or she could be entering the atmosphere as we speak. I want all units to undergo readiness evaluations, including physical fitness and equipment checks, as quickly as possible and report back within three days about where they stand. Considering you've spent the past twenty years holding the line against Covenant remnants, I expect to hear good things.

'Combat operations will begin on the 20th at 1000 hours, starting with phase one. Start as you mean to carry on, Marines. Dismissed.'


End file.
